


Forks Over Bribes

by Dragoneisha



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe: Felt Heiress Jane, Canon-Typical Violence, Explosions, F/M, Felt Jane, Kidnapping, M/M, Mobsters, Multi, Private Investigators, Sexual Content, Time Travel, Xenophilia, alter ego, cops & robbers, not stockholm syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-10-14 14:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17510063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragoneisha/pseuds/Dragoneisha
Summary: Jane Crocker, dutiful follower of her grandmother's wishes, finds herself at the claws of the fearsome Midnight Crew.The Felt are panicked. The Crew are cocky. Jane, honestly, is having a great time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [chants] felt jane felt jane felt jane  
> thanks to pixelpixies for betaing and to the rarepair server for supporting me in this endeavor. get ready for a ride.

Jane wakes as she does most days of her life. Opening one eye, recognizing her surroundings, and closing it again to prepare for what will happen in the next ten minutes.

The difference this time is the pain shooting through her skull, which is much more characteristic of roughly 4.5% of her waking days, but much, much fewer once you take out the migraines. (Dirk says he's counted. Jane tells him to shove his data, but he'll be so, so good in the future, if he bothers to work for her. She doesn't think he will.)

Jane sighs, and opens her eyes again.

The room is dark, drab, and dim, to start with a few D words, but the most important ones would be "damn it, this isn't her fucking room."

She sits up just a little more, and feels a nice tug at her wrists. Oh! Well, unless she's suddenly devolved into much kinky debauchery right before the strangest mind-wipe of her life, Jane's been tied to this chair. She'll have to face the consequences soon, but before that, she just sighs and closes her eyes, letting her throbbing head thunk back against the back of the chair. 

Her memories will come back to her soon. Jane focuses on remaining cool, calm, and collected.

Now, who's kidnapped her this time?

She blinks languidly as she examines the room, shifting to cross her legs at the ankle. She _will_ remain the picture of a perfect Heiress, even if she has been tied to a chair.

There's a table, which she considers about par, and also a cot - better than usual, but also extremely concerning. Either this is a room that has undergone several uses, meaning her kidnappers are experienced, or they believe they'll be keeping her for more than a few days.

Both options are, per se, bad.

The walls are clean and non-grimy, although something does smell rather bad. The floor has some, but not much, dust in the corners. Nothing is green, so she doesn't think this is some kind of silly training exercise. Hm. 

She hears some muffled exclamations from the door - which is thick iron, from her view. It has a little peeking-hole with a slat over it, like she's some kind of prisoner.

Well, wait. Hold on. That was a silly thing for her to think.

She doesn't move, eyes locked on the think metal slat, until a shadow passes over it. Someone rattles with it, even as an excited voice carries on about something she can't quite hear. It reminds her of someone, but she can't _quite_ put her finger on who, in her dazed state. Really, wouldn't it have been polite to leave her some ice for the knock on her head? What kind of kidnappers are they?

The slat slides open, and Jane sees white eyes in black shell.

... Oh, phooey.

In the next three seconds, many things happen at once.

Jane realizes, suddenly, that she may or may not be in big, big trouble, even bigger than usual.

Her ears clear up enough to decipher the excited voice, making out the words, "- that she's awake what are we doing now? Should I tell the boss? I'm gonna go tell the boss, that makes the most sense, do you think she wants any water?"

The door opens.

Diamonds Droog, the mind behind the Midnight Crew, steps into the room.

"Heiress," he greets her, and Jane closes her eyes to sigh in some mix of amusement and irritation, with just a pinch of spite. _Not again._

"Droog," she greets, just as polite. "What is it now, then? Ransom? Taking things out on my grandmother?"

He strolls across the room, silent, as the door swings shut behind him. The table is pushed, with relative ease, right up in front of Jane, and Droog pulls the chair soundlessly behind him instead of letting its legs grind against the floor. He leans down, dusts off the seat, and sits across from her, with utmost grace.

Jane knows he's staying quiet to piss her off, but that doesn't mean it doesn't piss her off. Damn carapacians.

"Diamonds," she sighs, "you've been a terrible host. This room doesn't even have any curtains."

"It doesn't have windows, either," he points out, because of course that's what gets him to talk. He doesn't even like interior design. (She's fairly certain Deuce does, though. _Deuce, explosives expert, easily fooled but still assumed armed and dangerous at all times,_ submits her overactive brain for analysis, but she can't wave it off with both hands tied behind her back.) The stupid curtain joke gets him. Out of everything, it's curtains.

Jane tilts her head towards the door. "There's something of the sort in the door, isn't there?"

"I wouldn't call that a window," he says, without taking his eyes off of Jane. "A gap, perhaps."

Jane doesn't blink. Her glasses are askew, but she can't fix them. "It's an opening to see through, so, at least in some respects, it can function as a window."

Droog, ever so slowly, turns his graceful head to fix his blank, flat eyes on the slat in the door. No one is looking through it, but it remains, currently, open. Jane can see the slightest glimpse of gray wallpaper on the other side - as much of a clue as she'll get as to her whereabouts.

"I suppose you're right," he says at length. "My apologies, Heiress. I'll see to it that you get your curtains."

Jane wants to strangle him.

"Curtains, then," she says, with as much spite packed behind her smile as she can fit, like she's packing a wound so it doesn't ooze. The kind of thing Stitch taught her, but the tone is all Clover. "A lighter color would go with this rather drab gray."

"Give us some credit," Droog protests, dragging a talon carefully across the tabletop. "It's silver."

A glance around proves that nothing in this room could be called silver. The metal that braces the table and chairs is black, dull enough not to shine, and the wood is a light brown, with absolutely no flecks of any color or shine. Much less any silver. Jane supposes the most silver thing in the place would be the little pins and screws holding the frames of her glasses to the legs, and even that, too, is dull. _Silver my tush,_ she thinks privately, but she's got too good of a rhythm going to chance it. Especially with a man like Droog.

Jane looks at the man across from her again. He's well-dressed. His hat is impeccable. His tie is in a nice Windsor knot, which she usually associates with her father on fancier days. He is, of course, handsome. 

He's one of four men ruining her grandmother's enterprises and her friends' entire job, putting everything she holds dear at stake. 

"And," he says with that handsome mouth, very suddenly changing his tune (she hadn't noticed the lightness in his tone until it was gone,) "it's none of the above, Ms. Crocker."

Jane hisses through her teeth, thinking hard, but shakes her head. Other than inconveniencing her regent, faffing about with her grandmother, or the Felt, Jane can't think of a thing that the Crew would want with her. Save money, of course, but it's not a ransom either.

"... I have to say you've stumped me, Diamonds," Jane says, shaking her head once more. It's a carefully calculated movement. She is still the picture of a perfect heiress. "I can't fathom what it is you want with me."

He leans back, pulling a deck of cards from inside his suit jacket. Droog makes eye contact with her as he shuffles them idly. At least, she believes he does - those pupilless eyes make keeping track of a carapacian's haze a real humdinger, that's for sure. 

He draws the three of diamonds - wait. No, that's not the three of diamonds, that's a file with many papers in it. How could she make that mistake?

"Is the name, "Detective Investigator Sherr Locke", familiar to you," Diamonds Droog asks without inflection, turning one of the papers to show a glossy photo of Jane herself, with a delightful bushy fake mustache perched on her upper lip.

Jane says fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Weeks in the past, but not many...** _

"What in hell," Crowbar mutters, all soft tones and tiredness. It's too late at night to shout, even if he was inclined to, so she knows she's safe. He'd end up woken up in three hours by Doze asking him what the fuss is all about.

"Good early-morning, Crowbar," Jane chirps cheerily, standing with her arms out, absolutely stark fucking naked. Stitch doesn't even acknowledge Crowbar as he measures from her underarm to her shoulder. "I'd offer you a coffee but I'm afraid I'm a bit stuck where I am at the moment. So, take it yourself, it's right on that table there!"

"Can I ask why you're not even in your underthings," asks Crowbar, tilting his head down so the brim of his cap obscures his vision. What a good man.

"No you cannot," she says, clipped, even if she's cheery as ever. It's not like he's never seen her naked, the whole of the Felt have barged in on her at one time or another. It comes with sharing a house, even if it _is_ a mansion.

"Stitch," Crowbar laments, expecting an answer from a loyal subordinate instead of trying to ferret one out from a lady who's out of the line of command entirely. Smart man. That's why she likes him so much.

Stitch grunts. "I'm not arguing when she tells me to do things, Crowbar. That's how you lose an eye, and it's hard enough to stitch myself up with both."

How rude! She wouldn’t take an eye for that. She’d probably just make a big fuss - oh, wait, he’s likely talking about her grandmother. Hm, yes. That would be how you lose an eye, then. (Jane kind of wishes that she was feared just for herself, or at least acknowledged because of it, but then, she can’t enjoy her grandmother’s protection _and_ wish for her influence to leave. She’ll just have to suck it up and stick it out, as it were.) 

Crowbar looks like he’s at the end of his rope. He always looks like that, but it’s sad anyway.

Jane takes pity on Crowbar, and sighs. "I'm being fitted," she explains, "which your eyes should have told you, you know."

"You know, I'm trying to look as little as possible," Crowbar grumbles.

Oh, Crowbar. None of the others would give her that courtesy, even if they're already in troves, unless she reminded them exactly _why_ they should stop. Having the best grandmother ever, even if she is a little bit morally dubious, really does have its perks!

Jane flexes her fingers, which earns a noise of annoyance from Stitch. Honestly, he's so demanding. She's going to move when she's in the suit, it can't be skintight, you know. She just wants it to look good while she's wearing it. Some nice houndstooth fabric, and maybe an androgynous look. Mm, delicious. Stitch really is a lifesaver, even if he's a grumpy old coot.

Jane drops her arms as Stitch bids her, her underarms hitting her sides with a dry smack. Ever since she started exercising in earnest, working with her Dad, his measurements of her had been off. This'll be good for the both of them.

Jane can have her secret contraband three-piece suit, and Stitch can stop griping about all her workouts making his work look bad.

Crowbar moves to the side, so he's by the stairwell. Keeping guard, perhaps. "You know, the door isn't even locked," he points out, keeping his hat down as he leans on his crowbar. "Anyone could walk in."

"Only someone very rude, because they _should_ knock," she smiles at him. He can't argue with her and they both know it.

It's so fun to have all the power, even when others have all the clothes.

Stitch considers how he's going to measure her bust, then shuffles up behind her and awkwardly hands the measure around to himself. "Do you know why she wants this?" He asks, voice low.

"I don't even know what it is she wants," Crowbar gripes, clearly still out of whack from walking in on one of his few superiors and fewer female compatriots in the nude. If Jane wasn't so modest, she'd be flattered.

What Jane wants, is, of course, something she can go out in when she wants to do detective work. 

She is not telling Crowbar because Crowbar will tell her one present superior - her Dad - and she'll get in trouble for trying to sneak out and do detective work when assassins are trying to get her.

Jane thinks it's stupid, and assassins are always going to come after her, especially if she takes on _all_ the family business. But she's not going to say that to her Dad. She loves him too much to be so rude.

No, sneaking around behind his back is much better.

In short, nothing Crowbar does is enough to bother her save telling her father, and he’s not going to tell her father, so there’s nothing he can do about it.

Wait.

He could also tell Snowman.

Snowman isn't technically her boss, but she doesn't want to say no to her. The woman is, to be frank, frightening. All long legs and looking down her nonexistent nose, with an air of confidence that outdoes even Jane’s grandmother. Jane doesn’t know what to do around her, but the closest she gets to figuring it out is, “as little as possible”.

Even when they get along, Jane's always known she'd rather her not be around, and were it not for Scratch's particular inclinations, _she would not be_.

Jane steps off the little podium Stitch had her on and chats idly to the both of them. "Alright, you two, you can stop trying not to ogle me now," she teases, slipping on this nice green silk bathrobe that definitely isn't hers. It's too long for her, but hey, if the shoe fits. "I feel like I'm watching two dogs who think that if they don't look at the mess they made, they can't get in trouble. Would you like some treats and belly rubs to go with that?"

"I'd rather you rub my back," says Stitch, even as Crowbar is taking a deep breath to keep from saying something uncouth. "Damn near threw it out trying to get around your ass without putting my face in it."

Jane just gives him a smile, bright and pure and perfect, just like Clover taught her to. (Her dad didn't teach her this sort of thing. He never would. He's proud of her for learning it anyway, though, a woman "should always be able to use what she is given", and Jane was gifted just the most beautiful bucktoothed smile.) Who could be mad at this face? Definitely not grumpy old Stitch!

"I won't tell your human dad about this as long as you take care of breakfast tomorrow," Crowbar negotiates, aiming for a peace treaty. Jane may not be a hostile nation, but she appreciates the practice dealing with one. 

Not that she doesn't get plenty of practice dealing with hostility in a frathouse mansion full of fools and leprechaun-testosterone.

"Deal," says Jane. She extends a hand to shake on it, the other ensuring that her bathrobe stays closed.

They shake.

Crowbar would hate it if he knew what she was doing. But that's the problem - he doesn't know. She's really going to do this, because Stitch didn't snitch and she's not going to spill on herself. She's going to get to really, actually _do this_. She can't help but smile, ever wider, and Crowbar offers a nervous little smile in return, tiredness wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

Jane is going to do detective work.

And she's going to kill it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you may have noticed this work goes from the present to the past and back again. we rejoin jane now. she missed you, she swears.
> 
> oh also warning for some minor gore? like, i would barely call it gore. but some might. so im warning you. its right at the end there.
> 
> have fun.

Jane is still tied to her chair several hours later, and Droog, having gotten nothing out of her, has left her to stew. It's a wise choice. Were she a lesser woman, it would probably even work. But Jane is no lesser woman, and these are ropes, not chains. Two fatal mistakes.

Of course, touching her is a fatal mistake on its own. Her grandmother does get quite possessive, especially when it comes to who's allowed to assassinate who. But she doesn't have any faith in her sentimentality. _Boo hoo, her grandma doesn't love her, Bluh Bluh Bluh._ She's being raised as an Heiress, and an Heiress gets what an Heiress gets.

After a little while of stewing just to be polite, Jane's recovered from her headache. She taps her toes on the floor. It makes a delightfully echoey sound.

"Is anyone there?"

Jane's own voice settles in her ears and makes a nest. She waits, patient as ever, but only the noises she makes comes back to her, doves to the ark.

"Helloooo," calls Jane, leaning forward to look at the door. "Crew? Fearsome mafiamen? I'm ready to talk now. Your letting me sit around all tied up made me rethink my allegiances. I'm ready to join your dastardly deeds. Call me Jane Joker."

She waits for a reply, or any noise other than her own heartbeat and the echo of sound on metal walls.

"Or is it Joker Jane? Really, I'm good either way. Joker Jumpstart is just as good a name."

Still nothing. A shame, really. Her jokes are hilarious.

Jane flexes her arms, tests the bonds. They're securely tied, specifically to the metal back of the chair. She begins shifting her arms back and forth to weaken the rope on the hard metal corners. (Who even uses rope? It drags so _easily_ into a fray. Chains or nothing if you're doing a kidnapping. She should get frequent kidnapper miles. Get to pick her abode. More legroom, less drab colors. Gray just gets _so boring!_ )

No one's come after she offered information. This is good. Now, she can start her daring escape.

Jane's kept a lot of things hidden. She doesn't have time-based powers like the rest of the Felt (she does consider herself one of them, even if she isn't green and didn't originate from a tadpole like the rest of her friends,) but she does have her own genetic victories, and one of them is that natural Crocker strength she and her father share. 

It doesn't take much to fray the rope. They might have tarred it to keep it together, but Jane's a very determined young woman, and eventually, it starts to come undone. She can tell the difference soon enough, in the nanometers her arms are allowed to spread.

She flexes her arms and pulls, taking advantage of the weak point she'd created, and the rope twists, straining against itself, before it snaps with the quietest little sound. It doesn't even echo.

Good.

Now she can get on the important things - that is, casing the place, finding a way out, and then, of course, finding her way home. She never thought she'd miss the green! Oh, green is so, so much better than gray, thought. She shakes her head thinking of it, leaning forward to shake her arms out.

The doorknob rattles.

Time seems to slow down as Jane realizes exactly how much trouble she's about to be in. She doesn't imagine any of the possible unruly mobsters it could be would accept "my wrists hurt" as an excuse, and actually admitting to trying to escape is worse in a thousand ways. This is bad! This is quite bad, actually! She has to think of a plan, and do it fast.

She does.

Jane's back slams back against the back of the chair, and she tucks her arms behind it, too, disguising her escape attempt as a casual wriggle in her binds.

"You can just let me handle it," she hears, and her heart pounds in her ears. Droog loves to pace, he's like a leopard stalking his prey. Absolutely he'll notice that she's broken her ties, and as good of a fighter as she is, _no one wants to fight Diamonds Droog._ He enjoys it too much. She looks for somewhere to hide, something to grab - her sylladex is empty, of fucking course - and finds nothing.

But then, rebuttal; "I said I'm going to fuckin' ask her and that's what I'm gonna do. Get outta my sight, you're grating on the aurals, Droog."

Droog's pointed sigh is audible, even from the hall, and footsteps mark his languid retreat. Instead, Spades Slick, leader of the Midnight Crew, slams the door shut behind him.

Wow, he actually is quite small, isn't he? She supposes it's because she's been keeping company with the lanky Droog, and it's not like even the smaller Felt are lacking on the broad side, save maybe Itchy, and, of course, Clover, but... he's about her height. 

She just kind of thought he would be taller. Wow. So _that's_ what the joke is. That's hilarious, actually.

"What are you fucking yammering about," Slick spits, like it physically pains him to keep the words in his mouth.

She doesn't, particularly, want to fight Spades Slick either, but she's pleased as punch about this turn of events, because she won't have to. The only thing she needs to do is keep him distracted. And, if what she's heard about him is any indication, this is not going to be all that difficult.

"Good evening to you too, Slick," Jane greets, polite as ever, because she has a feeling that'll make him angry, and she's feeling vindictive. "I was saying lots of things, but I'm afraid I haven't the foggiest what specifically you're thinking about. Could you give me a hint?"

Slick sneers. It fits well on his face. He looks like he was crafted specifically to sneer, a perfect anatomical model of what a snarling bastard should look like. 

"I mean you were kicking up a massive fuss. Unless you stop caterwauling like fighting dogs, I'm about to go fetch a pail of water and douse you like 'em." He flattens his hands on the table. His scratchy little claws make light marks in the varnish. A playing card is pinched between the middle and ring finger of his right hand.

Jane blinks, twice - not owlish, but barely so. Her eyes are still wide and innocent.

"I was merely offering my services. Aren't you keeping me here for information?" She leans forward, just a little. "It's not any other services."

"I don't buy the innocent act, Crocker. In fact, I think it's a crock of shit. You get it? Get the joke?" He spits to the side. (How unsanitary.) "The joke is I think you're full of shit."

"I got the joke."

Slick flicks the card over his fingers, the little piece of cardstock finding its way between his taloned fingers. He points the knife at Jane. "Don't backsass me. I'll gut you as soon as look at you."

She's sure he would. But if Slick hasn't by now, then the Crew needs her, and she delights in being needed. It's so nice.

Kind of a change from usual, where the Felt try to ferret her away. They're good men, but they can be so old-fashioned about keeping the dames safe. (Except Snowman. Snowman is and will always be the exception to every rule - the only black in a green mob, the only woman in a man's world, the only woman that the whole of the world would fear and be right about it. Jane is jealous, in a quiet, childish way. She hates it about herself.) At least the Crew are using her for something instead of hiding her in a back room when assaults happen.

She knows it shouldn’t bother her, but, it does. So. Yeah.

"I promise you, Spades, the only thing I'm full of is wealth and information." And she gives him her best Clover smile.

Jane does not, however, have what Clover has protecting his shit-eating grin, and that's a hefty layer of luck that's as good as armor. Slick punches her, right in the side, and she gasps, suddenly. The little rat! That scoundrel! It hurts!

He points a bloody knife at her, and she realizes that she hasn't been punched at all.

Jane looks down at the red spreading slowly over her side. It's not deep enough to have hit anything vital. The knife's not even that big. But it hurts. It hurts _so_ very bad.

"Now," says Slick, tapping the point of the knife under her chin, making her raise her head, "we can get back to business. You can stop wasting my time. See? Isn't this easier?"

He lifts his knife hand, so he's casually holding the knife - no, wait, that's the ten of spades - between his index and middle finger, casual as can be even when he's speaking with so much ferocity he's showing his pointed teeth to the gums. Jane's still a little in shock, but she realizes she hasn't been paying much attention to his teeth. She probably should. They're as much weapons as his knife and claws.

She should divest him of some of those.

Jane waits for him to look away from her, casually checking on his bloodied playing card, and then she lunges over the table and grabs that smug, irritating little mob leader by the wrist.

His forearm makes a sickly crack when she breaks the carapace like a crab leg, pieces of shell pressing sharp edges into the meat of her hand.

"I am going," she says, labored with pain, "to rip off your fucking arms."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Weeks in the past, but slightly fewer...** _

"Quiet," Jane hisses, swatting at the tiny, giggling menace that was about to bust her cover. "I shouldn't have trusted you with this in the first place, don't make me regret it even more somehow!"

Clover retorts by stealing her fake mustache for a third time and popping it onto his forehead, where it resembles a unibrow. He waggles his newly-singular brow in a complicated wave that makes Jane both incredibly jealous and incredibly giddy. That darned little sneak has so much humor packed into less than five feet of mischief. She struggles to contain herself, with the same kind of ironclad discipline that makes her a good gumshoe.

She still has to put a hand over her mouth so no one hears her.

Before the two of them is a delightful scene. Itchy has his feet going in an almost idle little jig, while Fin and Trace both steadfastly attempt to ignore it, and Jane's own father is trying to find a good way to say that it's not shameful, but he's not really into green.

They didn't necessarily put Itchy up to this, _but_ they put Itchy up to this. The thing about Itchy is that he isn't quite quick enough to get when someone else is suggesting an idea with any amount of subtlety, especially two tipples in like he is now.

Her Dad had chosen the unfortunate time of right now to try and tidy the main hall. Right when Jane was trying to sneak out and everything! It's so inconvenient, it really is.

Jane blows out a quiet breath as she filches the mustache back on and painstakingly reattaches it. It's not unlucky for someone to take back what's theirs. At the most, it's annoying.

Her father turns just a little, clears his throat. Not quite enough - Jane knows from experience that he can still see the door. Damn his natural inclination for catching hooligans. "Itchy."

"Yeah," drawls Itchy, in a way that almost sounds argumentative. "What? Y'got a problem?" 

Jane cannot imagine how this man ever goes on a date.

Jane's Dad taps his chin, a moment. He says, quietly, "Itchy, I'm flattered. Really, I am. But I'm afraid I don't want to..."

Jane feels a spike of fear for whatever is about to happen. She can sense it coming, like how the water withdraws right before a tidal wave (according to her friend Dirk anyway. She's never seen a tidal wave. Or an ocean.)

"... get jiggy with it?" He finishes, and Jane has to muffle Clover by shoving his tie in his mouth. Fin chokes. Jane, herself, has to keep the beleaguered sigh she wants to make trapped in her throat so her Dad doesn't turn to find her like he's using wallhacks in a video game.

Itchy is unperturbed.

Trace slides down the wall in a fit of laughter as Itchy taps twice, and does the world's sloppiest jazz square up to grab her Dad by the lapels. Finally, finally, Jane watches her dad turn from the entrance, his hands planted on Itchy's chest to keep him from closing the distance. Jane is very, very relieved.

"Fuckin' lemme tear your fleshy lips off your face, you hunk of meat," Itchy whispers drunkenly.

"You need to go to bed," Jane's father says, wisely, as Fin howls in the background. Jane takes the opportunity to slip out the front door, Clover right behind her, and, luckily, the door is greased enough not to creak as it closes.

Jane almost does a little jig herself, but it means different things for leprechauns and she doesn't want Clover to get any ideas. _He has enough ideas as it is!_

Jane heads into town in a stolen car, but she lets Clover drive. This is actually the worst of the options, as he's not really tall enough to see, but Jane's a helpful lass. She tells him when to stop. He's still a terrible driver, but Jane isn't about to drive _herself_ , not when there's a perfectly acceptable leprechaun who's more than willing to help. Of course, he's helping just so he can run off and get into something he shouldn't, like a naughty cat, but that doesn't really strike Jane as her problem.

Midnight City rises over the horizon like some forgotten god had grabbed the blanket of night and pulled it up to let the roaches scurry from underneath it. It's a black, uneven series of spires, and Jane smiles to see it.

Now _that's_ where you find a good mystery.

Jane looks upon the city as they enter. It's dim, drab, and gorgeous in the way the black of the witching hour is gorgeous. There's thousands of things hidden in every square foot. it's like the place was built from the ground up, just for her - so she'd have eight thousand mysteries to unravel by breakfast.

She hasn't been here often, if at all. Usually her Dad made sure she knew she was to stay in the car for any stakeouts, and Crowbar was always there to ensure that she would. Darn that man and his commitment to following the rules. She usually appreciates it, but then he's got the audacity to enforce the rules in a way that directly gets in her way, and Jane doesn't like that very much. She's of the opinion that the rules should usually _suit_ her, not the other way around. 

Jane doesn't have a goal in mind say _do detective work_ , so really, any of these places would work just fine. 

"Drop me off anywhere," Jane says, flippant.

"I definitely wasn't going to go find the dump, but now I think it's on the agenda," chirps Clover.

She smacks him in the shoulder, but that only makes him giggle. "You know what I mean," Jane huffs, her brows furrowed in that way that makes her look just shy of pouty. (She and Clover practiced it at each other for several hours one day, trying to get the perfect mix of indignant and innocent. She thinks she's nailed it.)

(She has.)

Clover drops her off in front of one of many formless black buildings, and she takes a moment to look around. Street signs, dark alleys, the midnight air. She's always going to stand out, but she smooths out her dark clothing and pulls on a nice pair of gloves. She has investigations to do. First on the menu is the strange little dining parlor that she's heard tell is nothing but a front. She's sure she can pull the little lie-threads out of their stitching and tie them in a pretty little bow.

But everyone should bow to her anyway.

Jane heads off into the night, and she's ready for whatever she'll find there.


	5. Chapter 5

The whole place is in chaos.

Not only had Jane managed to escape the drab little room, she's armed herself with a broken table leg. It's not really for fighting with - she doesn't have mastery of Jokerkind yet - but it's very good for pointing at naughty little carapacians that want to try and squabble with her.

The main room of this... she assumes it's a bunker, is turned upside down by the sheer force of chaos that is a full-blown brawl with the Midnight Crew. Not only has Slick stabbed her again, forcing her to cup her one free hand over the wound to staunch the bleeding, Clubs Deuce, armed and dangerous extraordinaire, has ruined her nice pants by nearly blowing everyone to smithereens. She's been hit by a bull penis cane more times than she can count, and she will not be able to hold off more than just the two angry Crew as it is. They're only holding back so as not to kill her, but Slick is running out of patience, and Jane is running out of time.

"I'll break your other arm next, you git, next time I won't even let it dangle!"

"If you weren't worth so much fucking money you would be so dead," Slick spits in response, actually spitting, because she caught him in the jaw and he's got some blood and teeth rattling around in there.  
Clubs shoots at her again, and Jane ducks back behind the overturned cabinet to try and avoid it. It's loud enough to rattle her ears anyway.

"Stop shooting the hostage!" Slick screeches, and Deuce giggles an "Oops" that Jane isn't quite sure he means.

It's been like this for an hour now. Jane is rather exhausted.

Jane keeps her head turned so she can half-look around the fallen cabinet that serves as her savior. Slick and Deuce are hidden behind an upturned table, and she can see deep knifemarks in the wood.

_Wonder where those came from,_ she thinks, and she would roll her eyes too if this wasn't a life-or-capture-and-maybe-death situation. 

She curls her fingers right around her broken chair leg, ready to throw it, but something stops her. Something in the form of a tiny round pressure, a circle only as big as her thumbnail, pressing against the curve of her delicate throat.

"That's enough," Droog says, his voice creeping ink in water. Behind him, Hearts Boxcars sets down a small crate, which she has no trouble believing he carried one-handed. Both of their white eyes are fixed on her. "I thought you would accept our hospitality, Crocker."

Jane lifts her chin, as Slick shouts, behind her, about how fuckin' glad he is to see the other half of the Crew here to actually lend a grasper for once. She keeps her lips closed, glaring daggers sharp as his superior's at Droog.

Boxcars clears his throat, and shuffles awkwardly past Jane to start rerighting the furniture. Jane tracks him from her periphery, but her eyes never leave Droog. She can't note any insane rage in his eyes, not like she can with Slick. He looks calm - if not... disdainful. Jane feels a little rage of her own, being looked on with disdain from a fool like Diamonds Droog. She tightens her hand against her side, red spilling between her fingers.

In a single, smooth movement, Droog is kneeling in front of her - his hand is pressed over her clavicle, other hand back, on the butt of the cuestick, like he's about to break. Her fragile throat is the triangle. He leans in, so close she can almost feel the violence rolling off him, and whispers, "I wouldn't."

She doesn't.

She allows herself to be taken back to the room, but they don't tie her up again. Boxcars sets her in a new chair, one with all of its legs, and tears her shirt in half like one might a set of bills they have no intentions of paying.

Jane balls up her destroyed shirt, pressing it to her knife wounds so she'll bleed less. It's starting to make her quite lightheaded, but she's in no danger of death. Yet. 

The possibility of being allowed to die is there. But she has faith that she'll be fixed up. If not by the Crew, then...

She stews there awhile, the door shut and locked behind Boxcar's lumbering form, and reflects on the fact that this didn't work very well last time. Do they expect her to suddenly be more receptive, now that she's somehow more annoyed with them? ("Somehow". It was the stabbing. That's what did it. She shouldn't be lingering on "somehow".)

The door opens, and Diamonds Droog enters minus his suitjacket, which is perhaps a little unfair for Jane's mental state. He's a little slimmer in the shoulders than she thought, but that's mostly a testament to his tailor. 

He takes a seat across from her again. This time, there is no table between them.

"You broke Slick's arm," he says.

"Yes," Jane answers, as dignified as she can manage now that the pain is hitting her.

"He could have killed you for it."

Jane smiles, sweet as sugar. So that's what this is. 

"He'd be more likely to kiss me for it, a man like Spades Slick. I know how he got the scars he has." Jane is just on the side of boastful. Droog has a short temper - she wants to stop just shy of lighting his pitifully short fuse. 

Perhaps she shouldn't be boastful at all, wounded as she is, but Droog doesn't pounce. His eyes just trail over her, slowly, finally landing on the wounds in her side that her hand is still cupped over.

His gaze lingers a little too long before he speaks. Jane isn't quite sure what to think of it. "Are you going to let me see that?" He asks, inclining his head towards the red running sluggishly between her fingers. 

Jane looks down.

"What, this? It's just a scratch." _Ohhhh_ it hurts so bad. _So_ bad. She wants to be taken care of but she's in the clutches of the dastardly Midnight Crew, and no one is going to comfort her.

"Really, I can see it."

"I'm violated enough as is, having been divested of my shirt. Do you want to go further? Fondle me, perhaps?"

She didn't mean to be that sharp, but a girl has her limits. Jane is panicky. She should be better by now - she always is. And this is - gosh darn it, she's been putting up a brave front but these guys are experienced. So yes, the chucklefucks are getting to her, boo fucking hoo. Her grandmother would be so disappointed in her.

"Move," Droog demands, and then he makes her move. She could have stopped him, but Jane is honestly too surprised to do much - and it hurts anyway.

He sighs, curling his talons against the slowly weeping cuts. He isn't gentle. Jane didn't expect him to be.

But it still hurts.

Jane knocks off his hat, pushing his head back, and she's never heard a hiss like the one that comes rattling out of Droog's throat. He curls his claws against her wounds, and she hisses, too, much less frightening.

They stare at each other, a moment, Droog's head cocked back awkwardly, but he still shoots her the most venomous look. She glares right back, but she's better at sweetness than bitter. It's got nothing on Droog's utter disdain.

The standstill ends when they both pull their hands back, a synchronized, slow motion. Jane puts hers back to her side, and Droog, slow and meticulous, flicks out a playing card with his clean claws and uses it to wipe his hand of blood. Jane stares at him. The handprint of her blood that Jane left on his face is cockeyed, the heel of the palm crossing over one eye. He doesn't remove that.

"Have it your way," he says, voice taught with barely restrained malice. He retrieves the hat with a quick bend, dusts it off, and holds it in his hand as he leaves the room.

Jane doesn't relax until she feels the telltale pulling of her skin as Stitch works his magic, closing up the gashes in her side, and she sits back and sobs in relief.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fuck pesterlogs

Jane orders a coffee and settles where she's comfortable, a side table in this podunk little cafe. Of course, this is Midnight City. Almost every table is a side table. You have to be at least partially secluded or the Dersites don't feel comfortable.

She sips her coffee, uncaptchalogues a little carton of cream and pours a generous amount in, and then puts it back. Black coffee is for squares.

Jane is laying a trap, as usual. She's no PI, she's a detective, but she's a professional either way, and she knows what she'll be doing. In a few minutes, a man will come in with a bag. He will enter the back room, and then he will leave without the bag. Some low words will be exchanged. It'll be over in moments.

Jane can't wait.

She's put her phone on silent, but she's still getting messages. She may as well take a peek while she's waiting, seeing as Jane will likely be here awhile. (She showed up early, just in case. At least the coffee is... uh, not very good, and the seats suck also. Okay, this place isn't very good, is it?)

Three messages. One of them is the rarely-used mansion memo, which she is not going to bother with, as it is rarely used for the specific reason of it being an utter shitshow, and another is her dad. Oops. Ignoring that one too, she thinks. The last one is Dirk, though. Jane does like Dirk.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG]  
TT: Hey. Tracker says you're out of the mansion.  
TT: Did you get kidnapped?  
TT: You did. Great. Well, time to write a eulogy for one Jane T. Crocker. She was extremely naughty, and very nice when she wanted to be, which wasn't all that much because she's very tired, I hear. Or, I heard, because she's gone now. Not dead and gone but someone's finally managed to kidnap her, so she'll definitely die at some point.  
GG: Very funny. What do you think my middle name is, little man?  
TT: Putting aside the fact that you just called me "little man", which may be the most devastating thing ever said to me, probably Tiffany.  
GG: To put it simply, yikes.  
GG: Tiffany? Jane Tiffany Crocker? That's all you have?  
TT: It's a rich bitch name.  
GG: I am not a rich bitch.  
TT: By your own decree, you live in a mansion. Pardon my disagreement.  
GG: It's communal. Trust me, I would rather live in a normal home. With less blood and explosions, hopefully. I don't have anythng against clocks, but a few less of those would be nice. I don't know if I have tinnitus or if I just miss the ticking. 

Jane lifts her head, scans the place for suspicious activity, but only finds the two she was already aware of. A drug deal and someone hiding their face. Two things she doesn't need to investigate.

TT: Look, you can be wrong all you like. You live in a mansion, you're a rich bitch, Jane Tiffany Crocker.  
GG: Can we not do this now? I've finally gotten myself a lead.  
GG: Getting out was hard enough as it is, I won't have you blowing it for me.  
TT: Getting out of the mansion.  
TT: I just want you to say it, so you can hear yourself.  
GG: Goodbye, Dirk.  
TT: As the kids put it, "lol k". Good luck on your lead, though.

Jane puts her phone away just in time for the door to swing open.

The carapacian is a Dersite, which isn't the most surprising. He's tall, moderately broad, and unscarred. Kind of rough around the edges, considering how he's dressed. Ratty shirt, ratty pants. Definitely the guy she's looking for.

Jane watches him step to the back, pausing only to check around and talk to the slender woman manning the counter. She smiles, flirtatiously.

Jane acts like she isn't watching the whole thing out of the corner of her eye.

They speak quietly, words only meant for each other, but Jane has sharp ears and sharper wit. This is a delivery, she gathers. Something is to be put in the pastry dough, and they're to be marked so they can be picked out later. At least, as far as she can tell.

Ooh, they're putting real effort into it! That's so exciting! Jane was kind of thinking that she'd find only boring evidence of gang activity. At least they're putting on a show for her. Jane can't help but be a little excited. Yes, this is incredibly dangerous, and she should take care, and blah blah blah, all that silly stuff. Look, the fact is that she's never able to just sneak out and do things on her own. For good reasons, sure - assassins are no joke - but she's tired of waiting around for things to happen. And see, she's already done some pretty neat stuff on her first day out!

The reason she's worried about gang activity is that this isn't _her_ gang's activity, so it's either the Crew or a burgeoning force that wants a piece of the action. Both are bad and need to get their naughty tushes off Felt turf. They may not have a guard dog for this particular yard, but they have Fin and Trace, which is basically the same thing, really.  
Jane notes down what she can just barely hear, and she nods to herself, flicking her notebook shut as the tall Dersite slips out on surprisingly soft feet for such a big man. She'll need to give this further review - but for now, she's going to sneak around the back and get her hands dirty.

Being a detective is so fucking cool, gosh!!

The entry is simple. Just get in and get out. Snap a picture while she's in there. And considering she's paid off a fellow with a few missing teeth to leave the door open, getting in is easy as pie - and Jane knows a lot about pie.

It takes her a little bit to find the bag, and she's pleasantly surprised to find stolen goods inside. As always. It looks to be small pieces of a larger whole - perhaps some sort of weapon or game. 

Nope, that's a barrel. Weapon. She can see almost all the way through - what did they do, wrap the pieces in rice paper so that they don't get full of pastrybits? She can't imagine this is very good for the metal, either. What a strange way to go about things. Effective, though... or it would be if Jane wasn't around. What a shame that she's uncovering their secrets, their gang activity, and stealing things that belong to them.

Hopefully, this'll make sure that no one else stands against the Felt - once she figures out what to do with the information, anyway.

"This sure is a complicated way to smuggle stolen goods," Jane comments to herself. She snaps a picture, pockets a piece, and splits like a banana.

Jane doesn't notice that someone watches her sneak out again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i read the epilogues. they suck if you like jane crocker, which i do. janes my gorl and im gonna keep lovin her

Hearts Boxcars has yawned seven times in the twenty minutes he's been serving as her guard.

Every single time, Jane can see straight down his cavernous throat. She'd thought that the Crew's delivery man was big - she _did not know how_ big a carapacian can get. She had _no concept._

He rivals even Sawbuck, and that's a shocker. She's seen glimpses of him - usually while Crowbar or Itchy rush her off somewhere "safe" instead of letting her get into the firefight - but actually looking at the guy is a whole different story.

He could fit her fucking head in there.

Wow! After years of searching, she's finally found a scarier mouth than Quarters'! And not just because his is spitting swears and threats with every breath.

He keeps staring at her meager meal, too. Jane isn't about to allow that. However, the meal _is_ terrible. Perhaps she should offer him some.

"Mister Boxcars," she says, catching him right in the middle of a sideye, and she enjoys the little jump that gets, "do you _want_ something?"

"No ma'am," he says. His voice is low, as expected from a man as big as he. "It's for you. Slick made it special."

That would explain why it is....

She glances down at the plate of slop.

Like that.

"I insist," she says, leaning forward and scooting it over. This does have the effect of making her breasts almost fall out of her damned bra, because they _still haven't given her a shirt_ , but she supposes she can make use of that too. Maybe she can learn a little more with it. It's why the gods gave women breasts, after all.

Hearts leans to take it, and just sticks the whole plate in his mouth like a fucking cartoon.

Jane sighs as she sits back, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I see what yer doin'," says Hearts, _as_ he's pulling the plate out of his mouth, gross, "an it's not gon' work."

"What am I doing?" Jane asks, batting her eyelashes. It's one of her favorite activities, it is. Hearts sets the plate back on the fixed table (if by "fixed" you mean "duct-taped back together"). The plate rattles in a circle before finally falling still. Jane's heart can relate.

Hearts wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Usin' your womanly wiles," he says, and then the guy yawns _again_. Does he need a nap? Christ. "I'm flattered, but uninterested."

"It's your fault I'm not wearing a shirt in the first place," she points out. "Both a specific and a collective _you_ , as _you_ ripped it off of my body." 

Hearts just shrugs. Bastard.

"That's on Diamonds," he says, rather languidly. She didn't really expect him to be languid, so that's new. But this is interesting, so she says nothing in the hopes of prompting him to continue. Silence is a very valuable weapon - one of the few that works on Hearts Boxcars, apparently, as he elaborates further. "He thinks it'll make you uncomfortable. Off yer game. I don't buy it, I think he wants a look atcha, but don't tell him I said that."

"Oh, I wouldn't dare," Jane says, leaning forward in interest. Yes, do continue. "I didn't think Diamonds Droog was into women of my persuasion."

"Soft-bodies?" Hearts pshaws. It is, perhaps the loudest pshaw she's ever heard. Aren't those supposed to be a moderate volume? " 'Course he is. He and Slick both, apparently. That's more of a surprise."

Jane Crocker, of course, knew that Diamonds Droog enjoyed soft-bodied women (generally of the gray persuasion.) She has more than once giggled over his pilfered goods with Clover. However, the fact that _she_ is ringing his bell is... an entirely different story.

And _Spades Slick_? She's got to actually ask a question about that one, yeah. 

"Slick wants a look at me?"

“Slick wants a lot more than a look. He wants to tear off your face and use it as a hat." Hearts folds his hands over his belly while Jane thinks on that. She chews her lower lip, a hand to her chin.

Spades Slick and Diamonds Droog both have an eye on her in more ways than one. She can work with that, especially because she needs an out, but... it's also just nice. Sure, she gets glances from the Felt, but most of them aren't what she would call her type. But the fact is, Diamonds Droog _is_ what those in the business call a tall drink of water, and even if that water does have some cyanide popped in there, cyanide is supposed to be quite sweet.

Slick is... well. Slick is the leader, and she likes that, and she also can't deny having had a lot of fun breaking his arm and trying to whip his tush. High-stress environment, but when taken out of context, it was surprisingly enjoyable.

"Well, who doesn't some days," Jane says, in a way that's supposed to be aloof, but sounds a lot more like a schoolgirl's when looking at her first crush.

"Me," says Hearts. "I'm good as I am, without gettin' in the way of Spades and Diamonds. They cause enough shit just butting off each other - I don't need to help."

Jane's eyes twinkle. "So you aren't interested in my womanly wiles?"

Hearts just shrugs. Jane takes it as a "don't press me", and she doesn't blame him. She's a very pretty lady, she's got that impression, but even she wouldn't go for someone her superiors were after. Of course, her superiors are... a little different than Hearts', but the point still stands.

Jane sets her arm on the table and eyes Hearts a moment.

"... Tell me more," she demands.

"Nah, you got me talking enough already. I'm just supposed to be here until Spades is done wit'ya, or he'll try and kill you again."

"On sight?"

Hearts nods. "On - hey, I just said I wasn't telling you no more. Quit it."

Jane stares at him a moment. She eyes this massive carapacian, his massive hands, and his -surprise surprise - massive arms. She takes all this in, and then she braces her elbow on the table and lifts her hand.

"Arm wrestle me for it," she says.

"What," says Hearts.

"C'mon. If you win, I lay off and act the perfect guest for the rest of the evening. If I win, you spill the details on who's eyeing who."

"You wanna armwrestle with a guy like me for gossip," says Hearts, one plated brow raising to a comfortable 45 degrees higher up his head than before. "I ain't supposed to break the hostages."

"Come on. Stitch can fix me if I get hurt, no one has to know."

Jane smiles, less the kindness she displays as her usual turn, more the sharp viciousness she learned from her grandmother. That's what an Heiress really looks like, deep down. She figures it'll spur Hearts along.

It does. Jane finds herself clasping a massive, mittlike hand, with all the give of a cinderblock. "Can't believe I'm doin' this," Hearts mutters, but he braces his elbow on the rickety table too, and they both pause as it teeters from leg to leg. After it settles, Jane looks up at him, and keeps that sharklike grin on her face - more a show of teeth than a smile. It's not as good on a human as it is a troll or a carapace, but it's good enough.

"On three?" she suggests.

"On three," Hearts agrees, curling his fingers casually over her whole hand.

They count in sync, and then Jane stiffens up, lets Hearts gain some ground. He's not trying very hard.

Good.

Jane tenses up and smacks his hand into the tabletop before he has time to blink.

"The fuck," says Hearts, just as Jane chimes, in her perfect little Heiress voice, "I win!"

Hearts stares her right in the face, and he puts his hand up again, leaning forward. The fingers of his other hand dig into the table enough to dimple the material.

"Slick is into people who break him. I didn't know how you fucked up his arm like that, but you did. 'sgot him hooked. But he's gonna try to break you, too."

Jane smiles and takes his hand. "A rematch, then."

They break the table.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Only a week ago..._ **

Jane spins the little bent metal piece on the table, her legs tucked to the side. It wobbles so interestingly on its corner, the light catching its carefully crafted lines and sending spots of brightness dancing around the surface of the table.

The few Felt members around her - namely, the ones that won't rat her out to her father - are squabbling as usual. Jane will allow this until Quarters gets here. She needs him specifically, even if he's much more of a snitch than these lunatics in here. At least he's an adult sort of snitch, who just does it to cause drama instead of trying to get into someone's good graces. She can trust him to serve his own interests.

And, to know a lot about guns. That's the important part.

"Did he say when he was coming?" she asks Clover, who's sitting right next to her. She likes the optics of having a luck-fiend as her right hand.

"Nope," says Clover cheerily, which is not helpful. "If I had to ballpark it, I'd say he's taking his time on purpose."

"We all knew that," Itchy says, flicking another folded piece of paper at Sawbuck. "Bastard takes his fucking time."

"No need to be impatient," says Jane, also impatient. She needs to make a good impression, though. Set an example. "And stop harassing Sawbuck, I need both of you here and not six years in the future."

Itchy and Sawbuck keep squabbling, though, until Fin takes advantage of the table's gracious hiding of their toes and kicks Itchy soundly in the shin, just when he thinks no one's looking. Itchy turns his ire on Fin instead, but seeing as he knew what was going to happen when he booted Itchy, Jane doesn’t feel very bad. As long as Sawbuck doesn’t warp out, they’ll manage.

The waiting is still killing her, though. Jane sucks in air through her teeth and peeks behind her. No shadow in the stairway. No noise of heavy footfalls. Quarters was supposed to be here ages ago, but Jane’s fairly sure he’ll show up more than an hour late if they let him take his time.

Jane’s a lot of things. Patient is, sometimes, one of them. Now is not one of those times.

"Mind flipping a coin for it?" Jane asks Clover, politely. Clover really is a sweet one, but she knows if he wasn't such a sap, he could be running this place. He's also just a touch dim sometimes, but he's hardly the worst about it. Hah! Not in _this_ house.

Clover thinks about it, fishing the little coin out from his nice lapels, and plays with it. It flicks over his fingers with an identical shimmer to the little metal piece Jane's pilfered. 

"You owe me," Clover says, and flips a coin.

In the next instant, Quarters is leaning over the table, one great hand splayed out for balance, with his beakbrush shoved almost up his nose.

It takes everyone a moment to adjust to the sudden change, Fin and Trace breaking into shared giggles, and Jane takes advantage of the quiet.

"Quarters, how nice of you to join us."

Quarters' face wrinkles up until his brow is hooked into a peak that matches his snarling beakmouth. Jane just watches him turn to glare at her.

"Crocker," he says, hand fisting around his beakbrush, "the fuck."

"Don't get that stuck in your nose, you'll get a rhinolith," Jane tells him. "Now sit down. This was set to start a few minutes ago." She means half an hour ago, but she's being charitable.

Quarters moves to sit in the chair he's right in front of, but Jane clears her throat. That one's not for him. She pushes out the chair on her other side with her toe, and he moves to take it with a grumble. (The guy won't actually be that mad - Clover's chair is too small for him anyway! No matter how skinny his waist may be in comparison to his broad, terrifying shoulders.)

"What's the deal again," Itchy asks, or whines, more realistically. He's such a brat.

"Yeah," says Fin, always one to jump into an offensive once it's started. "Why did you wake me up?" Trace nods his approval, always one to follow suit.

It's three PM. Jane thinks he should have woken himself by now.

Jane passes the slim little metal piece over to Quarters, as well as a handkerchief to wipe off the suds from his beak-cleaning. When the outside of your mouth needs cleaning too, keeping it there is just kind of rude.

Clover comes skipping, or tripping but never hitting the ground, down the steps, and pulls himself back up into the seat at Jane's right hand. She can tell by the shine in his eyes that he's definitely stolen something from Quarters' room. He'll probably blame it on Itchy, to further that little balloons thing those two have going on. 

Jane doesn't call him out on it, just pats him right on the purple hat and calls the meeting to order.

"I went out recently on my own, for varied, private investigational purposes," Jane starts, leaning her forearms on the table and folding her hands, prim and proper. "I uncovered a smuggling operation through a pastry shop, of all things."

"Did you bring me anything?" Itchy asks, kicking his feet up on the table.

"No, because their pastries are dry, terrible, and have metal in them. That's how the smuggling is done."

Itchy seems to accept that. “Next time, then.”

Jane nods towards Quarters. "I managed to get my hands on one of the pieces. I believe it to be part of a gun."

Quarters snorts, turning over the tiny metal piece in his fingers.

"You grabbed this at random," he asks, without any of the inflection to show it's a question. Jane sits up in interest. He's quite enraptured by the piece, she hopes it's important.

"Yes," she says. "I thought about taking the barrel, but -"

"This is just as good," Quarters snorts. "You got your grubby little hands on the fucking firing pin. Lucky shit." He spins it in his dexterous fingers. "Looks like it's from a magnum.”

Jane knows absolutely nothing about guns.

"Of course it is," she says, feigning intelligence. "I figured as much. It had to be small to fit in something like a pastry."

She gets a few confused looks from that. And then everyone stops looking confused, save Quarters, who just seems a little grumpy. At the very least, he did what she wanted, so he’ll be permitted to grump. Any further whines, however, will be met with a sincere and firm-handed drubbing. 

Jane clears her throat, but no one moves an inch. Not even their eyes - all sets are fixed on something behind her.

Well, that’s annoying."It's like you all made a face and it really did get stuck like that," Jane comments, and nobody moves. She doesn't like this, not one bit. 

She eyes the wide-eyed group, Clover and Quarters going rather still, despite not having the same, familiar expression. 

Wait.

Oh no.

Jane glances around, then, out of a sense of dread, turns to look cautiously behind her.

The glimmering black carapace of Snowman is hidden in the shadows, her head inclined just so so that the wide brim of her beautiful hat is cast down over her eyes. The light of the open door illuminates the stairs behind her and backlights the woman herself, giving her even more of a striking silhouette. She drums her claws on her arm, once, then again, a dramatic, graceful motion. The noise it makes is a quiet, repetitive set of clacks, all tumbling over each other like the Felt do when she tells them to do as they’re told. All in all, she nearly oozes menace.

Jane feels a chill.

"I didn't know you'd started a club," comments Snowman, taking a single step forward, so that she sheds the silhouetted look and becomes more real in the familiar dark. "Should I hang up a sign?"

There's no way someone should be able to communicate disdain, annoyance, and hatred in a sultry tone like that, and it's especially not fair that it is really _quite_ hot. Jane and Snowman have their problems. She's the only operating member of the Felt that Jane knows for sure would kill her in an instant if she were allowed. It wasn't even anything Jane did. She's always been that way.

Jane hisses a breath in through her teeth. "Well, it's more a war room than a club meeting. We're still accepting applications for generals."

"There's no fucking "we" about it," gripes Quarters. "I was forced into this."

"Sure," say Jane and Snowman at the same time. Everyone in the room is suddenly on high alert. Except for Clover, the bastard.

Jane stares at Snowman. The pull of a foolish move is at her mind. At her very soul, even. She won’t be able to resist, and she knows it - it’s the Crocker curse, that prankster’s gambit.

"Jinx," she says. "You owe me a soda."

And she smiles.

"You... owe me an explanation," Snowman responds, after a slow, confused blink. Haha, Jane has caught her off-guard! That's one for the books, that is. "Meeting in the dark isn't what I'd ascribe as one of your favored traits."

"It's meant to be a secret," Fin grumbles, putting his chin in his hands. He worries his lip in his teeth, too.

It was meant to be a secret, Jane thinks to herself, but fat lot of good that's done. She called this meeting to figure out a proper way to give credit for her discoveries to another of the Felt, but now she's caught red-handed by none other than the she-devil herself.

Clover leans to tug on Jane's sleeve. He whispers to her, in the slightly too-loud, still mostly unintelligible tones of a glib little man with nothing to lose.

And it's actually a good idea, too. Lucky he thought of it.

"Would you like to take a seat?" Jane asks, turning back to Snowman. "There are chairs open. And this can concern you, if you would like."

Snowman stares at her with all the venom of a pit viper, but she somehow still looks calm. How can a woman communicate all that with her eyes? Jane's eyes are too soft and sweet. She's jealous, briefly.

With all the grace of a recently escaped jaguar, Snowman traverses the neverending ten feet between herself and the meeting table and sweeps her dress tight against the back of her legs, so she can sit easily. The whisper of silk against her hard carapace is the only sound. No one dares to breathe.

Clover sits forward and greets her, pleasant, and Snowman simply hums in response. She takes out her cigarette - its deadly holder included - and has herself a drag.

The smoke billows out between the barely-hidden points of her teeth as Snowman speaks.

"I'm listening."


	9. Chapter 9

"Honestly, I just feel like we need a new table," says Clubs Deuce, from his loud position behind the door.

"Hush," says Diamonds Droog, quieter, but occupying the same space. He says more things, but the fact is that his voice doesn't carry as much as Deuce's does, and the heavy steel door in the way ruins much of Jane's ability to make out the words. It sounds like he's explaining something, his voice clipped, but Jane cant even begin to understand what things are being said. She can't make his words out at all.

She'd like to make out something else, she thinks, before she waves that thought off with quick flicks of her hands and an emotional "BLUH".

Jane is tucked up all cozy in her cot, having stripped it of its sheets and formed them into a toga of sorts. They're not good sheets, but at least they're something, she thinks. The hushed conversation behind her cell door has been going on for awhile, enough for her to pick out her new clothes' embroidery, and she's getting antsy.

If they're going to come in, they should just come in already. All this is doing is wasting everyone's time, especially her own.

She tucks her knees against her chest. Her bare toes curl into the sheets, shoes stored neatly beside the foot of the cot. She isn't going to have her shoes on in bed, even a terrible bed like this one.

She listens to the fight as she examines her nails. She needs to paint them again. The paint might chip at this rate, could you imagine? Jane Crocker looking so unkempt as to let her nail polish chip? That's so unprofessional.

Jane worries, briefly, insane for the quickest moment, that she'll never get to paint her damn nails again. Of all the things to worry about, she thinks of painting her nails. Jane hates herself for it.

She knows she's just coping, though. And besides that - Jane will get out of here. They can't keep her for much longer. Jane stomps down the scared little girl who voiced her irrational fears and doubles down on that thought. She will get out of here. And it'll be easy, even, what with Slick and Droog both eyeing her.

She's got this.

Droog enters as the squabble finally dies down, and Jane is waiting for him, knees tucked, chest puffed, head held high. Just as a Heiress should be.

Her sheet-dress has a bit more of a plunging neckline than she "intended", and he may not have pupils, but Jane still clocks him taking a glance. She simply tuts and puts a hand to her chest.

" _Droog_ ," she greets, appropriately judgy for a woman who's just noticed a man eyeing her chest. "I assume you're here to gripe further about my lack of cooperation?"

"However did you guess," he hums, turning the one remaining chair to face her as he takes a seat. 

"Intuition."

He makes a noncommittal sound, deep in his throat, and leans forward to consider her. Jane just watches how his fingers link together over his knee, like the jaws of a trap. He could have her just like that, caught in his talons. Isn't it lucky that he's a gentleman?

The gentleman, to his credit, is more comfortable with silence than Jane. He lets it settle over them both, like a comforter over two giggling children, but there isn't a flashlight to make shadow puppets out of this situation. It's just darkness, and she a kidnapper's quarry, not a child. It's nerve-wracking, not fun. Jane isn't going to let that linger.

"Speaking of a detective's intuition," Jane says, in the way that means Droog isn't going to like what she's going to say, "I've got some clues as to your real intentions in coming in here."

"Oh," says Droog, with absolutely no reaction. Dratted fool just had to be kicked out of whatever hell he gestated in level-headed, now, didn't he? 

"I do," she says, settling back against the wall. It's cold against her back. She's been cold since she's been here. Carapaces must feel temperature differently, because this really is unpleasant - she wishes she at least had a thicker blanket.

He motions one-handed for her to go on. She eyes his palm, notes the sections that break up the shell. Jane wonders if she could peel up an edge to peek underneath. He'd claw her, but then, he's going to end up clawing her anyway if things work out how she wants. She might as well take a look.

"You're just hoping for an eyeful. It's why you haven't offered me the dignity of a shirt."

He raises a brow, as much as his plated brow can raise.

Jane continues, smugly. "Oh, yes. I've got you dead to rights. Now, I haven't any proof you can't just deny - but then, where's the fun in that? You and I both know you've been eyeing me up. I'd be affronted if I wasn't quite sure at least some of it is due to my reputation."

"Do tell," says Droog, with that very calm voice. Even calmer than before, in fact.

Jane's starting to think that means he's not very calm at all.

"You've got your eye on me. I've known for awhile, but now I have proof." She slides her hand down over her chest, and Jane watches him dip his head to glance, then look back up. He's like Crowbar in that he's respectful enough not to gape, but he knows as well as she does that she wants him to look.

Droog growls, nice and deep in his chest. "I'd recommend you get your head on straight. It'd be a shame if I had to twist it around myself."

"As much as you'd like to wring my neck, you're wringing your precious shirt in your hands instead with all this time you're wasting," Jane mocks. She sees she's crossed the line with the sharpness in his eyes, and Jane delights in it.

Spades enters right as Droog has his claws under Jane's throat, threatening her with death if she says another word about how she's got him wrapped around her pinky finger. Just as she'd hoped. She slips one leg out from the other one, hooks it around Droog's hip. 

"You wouldn't _dare_ ," she coos, and makes eye contact with Spades over Droog's shoulder. She pulls him a little closer with the leg hooked over Droog's hip, eyes half-lidding, Cheshire that she is, and she's got a nice bowl full of black-licorice cream.

"What in _fuck_ ," shouts Spades Slick.

Droog tries to straighten, but Jane gets ahold of his wrist. She kisses the back of his hand first. He wants to slaughter her. Jane cannot wait for him to try.

"Is this what we do with our fucking captives? I didn't figure you for a _god damn horndog_ , Droog, but inevitably you fuckers disappoint me -"

Spades gets his claws on Droog's shoulder and yanks him back, and Jane lets her leg thunk back against the cot instead of fighting it any more. Droog rolls his shoulder to throw off Spades' claws, and they both stumble back a step, their gazes on each other instead of her. The tension between them is just delicious. There's so much history here, so much to enjoy - Jane wishes that she knew more about it, so she could decipher all the sweet little touches.

"You're just as guilty as I am," points out Diamonds Droog, and Jane laments not having popcorn for this show.

They face off, Slick with his shoulders dragged so far up he might as well be wearing them as earrings, and Droog with all his natural, feline calm. They're quite a pair, spitting, fiery mad and cool as ice. Jane eyes them both.

Droog moves first, a slower reach, but Slick snags his wrist with his uninjured hand. He squeezes like he's trying to throttle a weasel.

"You're a backstabbing mistake of a man," Slick spits, with so much vitriol spit actually flies from his mouth.

"I recommend you let me go now," growls Droog, with his normal gravitas dropped to a level Jane hasn't heard yet,

"Is this what you think we do with our prisoners?" Slick snaps, repeating himself out of sheer inability to focus. He talks like every word is violence, and it might as well be. Jane watches one of his hands, where he's twitching towards the deck of cards that might as well be a bandolier of knives. Another millimeter and he'd have one, but Jane thinks that he's not willing to risk starting a real fight with Droog right now.

"Not like you're trying to preserve her either," Droog rumbles, and Jane can't help a little shiver. He's got a gorgeous voice, it's just unfair.

They communicate differently, for a moment. Clicks and rattles. Body language. A glimpse into a culture Jane's not privy to - and then they break. 

Jane looks between the two, and slides her knees apart, just the lightest bit, to draw their eyes. Slick holds his wounded arm close to his chest. Droog leans, lazy, against the back of Jane's sole chair. (It is hers now. If they're going to make her stay here, the things in this room are hers.) Both have the kind of energy that reminds Jane of a bullet ricocheting against the inside of each of their shells, a hailstorm of danger, barely contained.

And they both want her.

Isn't _that_ just delightful?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gay and tired. heres more of this.

"And how is this meant to be evidence of anything," asks the calmest, smoothest voice Jane's ever heard, even from where her ear is pressed to the wall.

"Good question," says Snowman, rivaling the smoothness, but with a good deal more restraint. Jane knows Snowman feels more by leagues than Scratch ever will, and it shows in her voice. "Another good one would be why you're asking me that when we both know the answer already."

"Correct. Everyone here knows the answer. Perhaps it just brings me joy to hear you say whatever you've concocted as a fake, silly reason. Is that answer enough for you?"

Jane and Snowman sigh at the same time, but Snowman's is louder, drawn out. Jane is trying her best to keep herself a secret, and so she affords herself a quiet, annoyed little huff, and nothing more. Dealing with this man is, without fail, agonizing. Not only because he makes it a point to antagonize everyone he meets, but also because he is the only one Jane cannot leverage in some way. He has this remarkable way of kicking right through her carefully constructed idea fort and then punting sand in her eyes.

The sand is uncomfortable antagonism.

Snowman, Jane knows, has a similar view, but that's what Scratch gets for inviting a panther into the house and seeing fit to lasso it to what it hates most. (Jane doesn't know what the thing she hates is, but she's picked up gossip over the years. Crowbar won't freaking tell her what Snowman's deal is, and she isn't about to ask her _Dad_.)

The difference between all of them and Snowman is that Snowman could leave. She just doesn't, for another reason Jane doesn't know. In other news, not knowing things sucks. 

Nevertheless, they both hate trying to make Scratch do anything, but Snowman has to, to make Jane's plan work out. It's a miracle Snowman agreed to work with them. Perhaps it was boredom, perhaps it was vague interest in Jane's ideas. Either way, Snowman, despite not being a fan of Jane, is offering up the evidence Jane collected to Scratch, and he's going to do with that what he sees fit. That's how mobs work, after all. The boss makes the decisions. And Scratch is the boss.

Snowman explains the story they came up with - the walk in the dodgy district, the tracking a Midnight Crew stooge, and Snowman's daring, teleport-based entrance. It's a very good story.

Scratch does not buy a fucking word. But that's the thing - he doesn't need to, really. He just has to accept it.

Motherfucker doesn't do that either.

"Sure," says Scratch. "Are you going to ask Jane in or shall I? I'm sure your stories will be, of course, exactly the same, but I figure it's only polite to offer her a chair instead of a cold wall against her ear."

Ah, yes. The other problem with trying to eavesdrop, no matter how casually. Scratch _knows_. Jane doesn't waste time getting up and strolling in. After all, there's no reason to be ashamed - she'd figured she'd be caught, even if she naively hoped she'd end up in one of his few blind spots.

A shame. Maybe Snowman will do them all a favor and give him one.

"Don't be so cold," Scratch admonishes, with no gentleness or care. Just one more way he's unlike Jane's father, on top of having a big old white orb head and wearing stupid clothes. "You knew I'd know."

"I know."

They both chuckle, but that just sours Jane's enjoyment a little further.

"So, the game here is to... make me put forth a new idea? Warn me? Both?"

"Neither," says Snowman, pulling out her cigarette (holder included) and lighting it. "Perhaps it's just to make you aware."

"I'm going to just put a stop to all this ludicrous overuse of the word "perhaps" that I'm certain will come in the next few moments. We're all very smart - I, of course, the smartest - and we don't need to beat a dead horse."

[i]I wish you were hoarse,[/i] thinks Jane. He doesn't have eyes, but she feels Scratch gaze disapprovingly anyway.

"Catch me up," he asks, clasping his hands behind his back. His voice betrays a wry amusement at nothing at all. Maybe just himself. "For fun. For the benefit of those who don't understand yet."

Jane isn't sure what he's talking about, but she knows Snowman isn't going to say anything, especially now that she's smoking. She works up her pride, balls it up, and tucks it into bed with a quiet sorry. Yes, she's got to play with the big dogs now, it all requires a bit of groveling. Horrible, she knows. She'll live.

Snowman exhales smoke, some making its way out between her teeth, and Jane lays down the idea.

Scratch didn't [i]need[/i] to know, but he'd [i]want[/i] to know. Specifically, he'd want to know that he was in the loop by choice. The farce was just for appearances (it was not, but Jane's sure she's allowed this one little white lie) to make sure everything was straightened out between all parties.Yes, Jane's been going out when she isn't supposed to - this is a bribe. To make sure Scratch doesn't decide to let that slip to anyone.

Like her dad.

"Oh, this is - this is incredibly juvenile, then," says Scratch, and Jane just about explodes.

"I suppose that's a word for it," she says instead.

"No, no," he says, lifting a hand to wave it off as gentle as a feather. "You're not even admitting to yourself that you just don't want your father to be disappointed in you? Is that it? You think he isn't going to allow his grown child to get out of the house every once in awhile?"

God, he's so insufferable. And he's not [i]technically[/i] wrong, because [i]technically[/i] Doc Scratch is never wrong - he's just [i]not right. [/i]

"Something like that," says Snowman, who is very much not helping. Why does she have to make everything just that much harder? And she's attractive, too, so she just stands there and smiles like she knows she's the top of the line and she’s right without any technicalities thrown in. It's almost more infuriating.

"Perfect." Scratch claps his hands together. It makes about as much sound as a pillow hitting a bedspread. "I accept. This seems like a fun and clever scheme you've made up entirely by yourselves."

Jane waits for the other boot to drop.

"Just kidding," he chuckles. "This is incredibly asinine, and you both know that. Snowman, I'm surprised you went along with it. Have you a soft spot for the poor, wayward girl?"

Jane stifles a snort. That's a new one. But Scratch turns as if expecting an answer, and Snowman gives him one, once she's finished exhaling smoke that billows over his faceless orb-head in sheets like rain.

"I'm sure that's it."

"Fantastic."

It is not fantastic, but Jane sets herself at a low heat and allows her mind to simmer. She can be mad later. She doesn't want Scratch, the only man standing above her, and the only man she holds this much resentment for, to set her on his bad side. Owing anything to this man is disgusting, which is of course why he ensures everyone owes him as much as possible. It'd be admirable if he wasn't... him.

But it's in the past. Scratch agreed, and Jane turns to go. It's time to get the game started, and then, maybe, she'll be able to do more sleuthing. Jane does so love sleuthing.


	11. Chapter 11

Jane takes a moment to enjoy the relative ease of sitting at a table with a real shirt on. These are all things she used to take for granted, but not anymore. Now, this is bliss.

Across from her, Clubs Deuce smiles vacantly. Jane is boggled by the fact that this is their best demolitions expect, but, you know, sometimes these things happen.

"So whose is this?" She asks, politely.

"Slick's lady friend," says Deuce, sitting forward enough to slightly tip his chair. Jane allows herself a moment of amusement at his shenanigans. "You're a little bigger than her, but it's the only lady clothes we have, ever since she left her stuff over after she brought Slick home one night."

His chatter is pleasant. Jane relaxes a little, leaning forward on her elbows.

"I see," she nods, drumming her fingers on the table. "She's on his arm, then?"

Deuce nods. "She was. Then there was something about a knife? I guess she got mad when he stabbed her, but that's her own fault, honestly, it doesn't even hurt that much."

Jane didn't know Spades Slick had a lady friend. Past, present, or future. Jealousy doesn't suit her, she lies to herself, but there's a little ping of it. She guesses she's just gotten used to them having eyes for her all the time.

Deuce is, luckily, a bit of a dope, so it wasn't that hard to get him to put her at a real table and talk. The past few days - she's really lost track of time, has it been a full week? - really have dragged. Talking to Slick and Droog is always a delight, but really, she's glad to be able to chat with anyone else in the entire world. It comes from living in the mansion, she supposes. Usually, she has plenty of people around. Er, leprechauns.

The shirt isn't exactly nice. Not her usual. But it's also not green or white, so she's happy with it. She thinks the black fits her nicely If only she had some makeup to go with it, she'd be striking. And she would like to be striking. 

Even if it's just striking Spades Slick in the face. That's also an acceptable form of striking, but then, why not both?

"Do tell me more," Jane prods, and Deuce is happy to chat. She sits forward, both hands around her warm cuppa. She didn't know Deuce even knew what tea was. (She's still not quite sure if he does, honestly.) She listens as Deuce goes on a long spiel about catching Slick by complete accident with his pants around his ankles. She doesn't directly ask what his, er, anatomy looks like, but, well, the thought crosses her mind.

The blush that tints her little cheeks is completely unrelated.

Deuce raises his cup, and tea spills absolutely everywhere. Jane is up and moving to clean it up without a thought. She may be an Heiress, but being waited on hand and foot isn't really how things go. Not with a house with as much testosterone as a frat. 

Do leprechauns even have testosterone? They all seem vaguely hermaphroditic, from the unpleasant glimpses she's seen. They probably have both, but - whatever. Just a house full of men. It doesn't matter their T level when they're all gross dudes who don't clean out the shower drains until Jane stares at them. Her Dad shouldn't have to do all that, darnit! He does quite enough around the mansion. Even with Jane tidying as she sees fit.

"I've got it," she hums, and waves it off as Deuce thanks her. He's at least apologetic. Better than Itchy, who just _leaves stuff all over the floor._

Jerk isn't even sorry most of the time.

As she's on her knees, the door opens, and the silky-smooth tones of Diamonds Droog meet her ears. 

"Why are you at the table alone," he asks, without any of the inflection a question would warrant. It much be beneath him.

"I'm not alone, though," says Deuce, swinging his little feet back and forth under the chair. Oh dear. Jane may not have magic future-sight or be able to follow the trails of those in the future with a mysterious sixth time-sense, but she still doesn't really foresee an ending to this favorable to her.

Jane gets behind Deuce's chair as Droog sweeps by, just barely hidden by the table and chair combo. He's heading for her internment room. This will end well for precisely no one.

"Just don't make a mess," he orders, expecting it to be followed. Deuce calls after him.

"Aye-aye!" he grins, and then sits back in his chair. Jane gets the singularly interesting view of watching Deuce forget absolutely everything that just happened, and then pull out some sort of literature. Jane peeks to try and get a look at it. Whatever it is must be -

Hm.

Well.

Jane decides to sneak out while he's distracted. But which way? She glances after Droog, then to the exit. She's close. She could probably get out - but she wouldn't know where to go. She'd at least be out of their custody, but who knows where she'd end up? It takes her a moment to consider it.

The pause doesn't last long before Jane heads back towards her cell, to track down Diamonds Droog. Heck, this might be just the opportunity she's been looking for. Plus, he's less likely to lose his mind when she's still around, even if she isn't in her cell.

Droog enters the room and stops, quiet, in the doorway. Jane breathes a sigh of relief as he seems to take it in and not immediately get her.

Jane tries to slip by, soft-footed, with the sneakery of a domestic cat sliding past two clocks that are set too close to each other for a cat to reasonably get between. She gets pretty far, too, but someone must have clipped her whiskers, because Droog turns and pounces upon her like a jungle cat, dragging her back without even enough time to react. Jane could have screamed, perhaps, but it would have been futile.

He shoves her against the wall and snarls.

Jane manages to get exactly one hand - well, arm, rather - between herself and Droog, which may be the only thing that keeps his teeth out of her skin. She doesn't really think he'd set to trying to bite off her face, but she's not sure enough about that to take chances.

"What the fuck are you doing out of your God damn cell," he demands, with a little less of the calm he usually carries. Seeing Diamonds Droog mad is like specifically setting off a bomb so you can stare it in the face. Jane would have preferred not to have done this. However, the thing about doing things is that undoing them is not exactly possible unless the right members of the Felt decide to help out, and in that case, it was meant to happen anyway, and also, you'll probably die. Just like making Droog mad with no weapons to defend yourself with.

Jane has a feeling her outlook got a little more dismal.

"It isn't my fault you didn't lock me up well enough," she says, because weakness, in this instance, is death. "If I can get out, that seems much more like it's on your end than it is mine." 

He bares his teeth at her, and she bares hers right back, in a kind of feral grin not suited to humans. Leprechauns don't do this much either. This, she learned from Snowman, and at least a little of that influence shows.

"We'll just have to make sure that you don't get out again, won't we."

Probably best not to fight a man on the edge, so Jane lets Droog drag her back into the cell. She knew what she was getting into when she didn't go looking for an escape route. She is, most definitely, right where she wants to be.

This does not end up being quite correct. Pushing her on the cot means that Jane ends up under him, and, while that is a completely different level of sexy, she much, much prefers to be on top. So, only about 75% true, all in all. That's three in four, pretty good success rate considering she's been heiressnapped and locked in a dungeon. Not even a fun dungeon, it's just one lame cell-that's-not-a-cell and a table she doesn't even have anymore.

Droog presses his knee into her sternum, and she's a little low on breath, but that takes the rest of the wind out of her sails. While she could fight back, Jane is very interested in where this is going. 

A playing card is produced. Jane blinks at the two of - wait, that's not a playing card, that's a pair of handcuffs, and right as she realizes that they click around her wrists and Jane is stuck with her arms over her head, back flat on the cot, completely at Droog's mercy.

This is quite rubbish, if you ask her.

"Are we supposed to pretend this isn't for your own twisted desires, or can we be frank with each other already?"

Droog doesn't smile, but the corner of his lip lifts enough to expose some teeth. It's answer enough. Jane leans up, and the angle is awkward, but she's decided to try and bite off his flat, unimpressive carapacian lips. Shame that Droog's knee hasn't moved and she's stuck right where she is.

"You rotten man," she gasps, short of air.

"Maybe now you'll learn your lesson," Droog posits, leaning down to be just out of reach. His eyes glimmer with malice, and something else Jane can't quite describe, but feels just as much as he does. "Or, you can rub your little soft wrists raw. Up to you."

Jane makes her decision.


	12. Chapter 12

_**In the beginning…** _

The hustle and bustle of the Felt mansion doesn't usually feel panicked. Jane, a little groggy, but completely aware, pokes her head out of the room.

The hallway is empty, so she retreats to dress. As she's pulling on her blouse and buttoning it up, she listens for more of the sound that woke her up - the too-quick pitterpatter of small shoes, she supposes it was. Clover is doing _something_. Whatever that thing is is beyond her, and will be until she's had her coffee. Jane has herself a little chuckle thinking about going to a cafe and ordering black coffee, and also all the bacon and eggs they have, but the likelihood of being able to do that is right around zero. They have a perfectly good coffeemaker anyway. No need to waste.

And she has a feeling she isn’t going to be getting it, from the sound of those eager little feet.

Jane heads down the stairs with a little yawn, but stops when she hears voices. Sawbuck and Clover's, to be specific. That's a fun combination - especially when Clover starts up with riddles Sawbuck has no patience for.

"Over here, over here, I say," Clover crows, and she can hear his little feet in something like a jig. He’s rhyming again, so there’s something that he wants. Sawbuck makes a quiet noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

"She's going to be in her room, we have to get her out of here. Crowbar's orders."

"Crowbar no-bar, he's just saying it because her human father did! But yes, I guess."

As Jane heads down the last set of steps, Sawbuck almost hauls off and whaps Clover, who, of course, dances out of the way.

"Boys, boys," Jane calls, sweeping down the hall towards them with all the grace she's earned through practice in walking in heels, "what's all this ruckus? You're both pretty, you know, no need to fight about it."

Sawbuck just turns his gaze on her, worrying his upper lip in his underbite, but Clover hops up to catch her hand. "No time to waste! No time to waste!" He chirps, tugging her down the hall. She follows, mostly out of curiosity. He’s such an impish little thing this morning.

"What is this all about," she demands, even as she willingly follows Clover along. "I've only just woken up."

"Good thing, too," Sawbuck says, lumbering along behind them. Jane pretends she can't tell he's looking at her ass. Look, it's not her fault Clover is pulling her down! "I didn't want to have to wait for your routine."

"Is there something _wrong_ with my routine? I have hair to brush, you know, unlike some of us -"

Snowman is there before any of them have a chance to see her. She must have faded in while they weren't paying attention, and she catches the group before they get any farther.

"Stop," she says, with all the authority that her old station afforded her.

"Why?" Sawbuck asks. Jane isn't so concerned with why as he is, though - if Snowman bothered to come stop them, it's important. She's perfectly willing to sit down in the middle of the hallway if Snowman asks her to.

Snowman lights her cigarette instead of answering, and, behind her, there's a flash of light and a rattling _boom_. The rush of pressure and air sends Snowman's dress fluttering, vacuum-sealed against her back, but she doesn't react in the slightest. Snowman blows out a breath of smoke that's whipped away by the aftershocks.

"Oh," says Sawbuck.

"What in - what's going on?" Jane asks, because she may be pretty startled, but generally, things do not explode. 

"The Crew is here," Snowman informs her, with the amount of personal investment a salmon would have in the creation of a passenger plane. "They're looking for you, it seems."

Jane has many questions. She asks none of them.

The thought of the Crew coming after her is legitimately daunting. This was always a possibility when she went investigating, but she doesn't really understand how they found her so quickly. Jane chews her lower lip and glances behind her.

"Where are they?" she asks Snowman.

When she turns back, Snowman is gone.

"Helpful," Sawbuck grumbles, safe in the knowledge that Snowman won't stab him because they don't want to end up somewhen that they don't want to be. She's pragmatic like that.

Jane just turns and heads out of the way, a soft voice raising to just a high enough volume to be heard behind her. It isn't a voice Jane recognizes - and that means its owner is someone she really doesn't want to meet. Remarkably cheery, though, for a mobster. Jane's surprised by it.

"Who is that back there?" Jane asks, scooping Clover up in one arm. He was practically begging to be carried, she may as well not waste time. Plus, it keeps him from jigging and wasting time. 

"Clubs Deuce," Sawbuck grunts, kind enough to hold the door behind him so it doesn't swing into Jane's face.

"Explosives expert, easily fooled but still assumed armed and dangerous at all times," she rattles off. "The dolt. Would explain why he sounded so chirpy."

"I'd call that more delighted," chirps Clover, delightedly.

Jane doesn't dignify it with a response, following Sawbuck down the stairs. "So he's up there. The rest?"

Sawbuck turns around as quickly as he can, starting to clamber sluggishly back up the stairs. It's a rather languid affair, even if he does look about as hurried as Jane's ever seen him.

"Up," he says, "up, up, I just found one."

Wait, no. He was more hurried when he and Itchy accidentally knocked over one of Quarters' guns, scuffing the muzzle, so it's good to know that this isn't the worst possible outcome. However, it's still not very good. That's rather a moot point, anyways, because this is still a very bad thing that’s happening. Damn. Sawbuck can be quick as a wink, but he doesn't want to, and it takes a hell of a lot to get a pitbull like him to do something he doesn't want to.

Wisely, Jane scampers up the stairs in front of him, trying to be quiet.

"Pain in the fucking ass fucking stairs," grumbles someone with a very deep voice downstairs. Jane presses herself against the wall and listens closely. 

Sawbuck pants beside her, so she shifts Clover to her other arm and claps her hand over his mouth. It doesn't really help - Sawbuck’s jaw is easily as wide as two handspans - but it gets the point across well enough. She’s only got the one free hand, so she’s relieved that Clover keeps his giggles to himself for once.

Heavy, measured steps start to descend the stairs, fading out of earshot, and it isn't for a good while that Jane lets out a breath.

"That was close," says Clover, quiet as usual, but just a little quieter.

"Lucky that he went down instead of up," Sawbuck says.

“Lucky indeed.” Jane sets Clover down and pats him on the hat. Clover jigs with a little grin, as Clover does. "However," Jane notes, "we needed to go that way." A sobering thought, heading down after the great mass of Hearts Boxcars and hoping he doesn't hear. Jane doesn't want to see what in hell the stories of him eating people alive have to do with truth.

The sobering entrance to the stairs yawns up at her, and Jane has to take a moment before she tiptoes her way down.

She's no adventurer, but this is her home, and she's dealt with enough assassins to know she isn't about to be pushed about by a bunch of hard-bodied lugs!

Jane goes steadfast onward.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lucky chapter 13
> 
> were getting to the endgame
> 
> also this chapter is like 100% a sex scene, i just thought it was appropriate

Getting Droog to undress is like trying to make Doze get to the fucking point - possible in theory, but more likely to require him coming to the idea himself.

Droog doesn't seem to have any intention of _ever_ getting to the point. The point is so far away Dirk's squirreled it off under his bed with all of the friendfiction that everyone mutually pretends he doesn't write. Basically, Droog is taking his fucking time, and it is driving Jane absolutely bonkers.

She's got a leg around his waist and her fingers crimping little dents in the frame of the cot. She can feel him, which delights her in a very specific way, but it's just as infuriating - especially because he isn't doing a thing about it. This is why she doesn't put out on the first date. Or much at all, generally.

That's a lie, she doesn't put out because her dad would insist on giving her eighty million condoms, and she's pretty sure those don't even work on carapacian-leprechaun, uh, assets. 

Plus, she's always running the risk of finding someone who wants to drug and kidnap her, but look at what a clever workaround she's found today! Really, what's he going to do, kidnap her _again_?

Droog interrupts her distraction with a low growl right into her ear.

"Is there something else that has your attention, presently," he asks, with a touch of irritation that really sends a shiver down Jane's spine. Why yes, that is exactly what she wanted. The nip to her ear that comes next makes her squeak, though, which is only marginally less good.

"I don't know," she half-laughs, a little breathless with the weight of the man pinning her down. Her wrists jungle the cuffs just enough to make a little tinkling noise. "You aren't really doing anything very deserving of my utmost attention, now, are you? Just getting all up in my space."

"I'll get _all up in your space_ , alright," he growls, pushing at her leg. She briefly considers keeping him pinned, but lets go because she's a nice woman.

Her leg slides over his hip, heel trailing the curve of his back, over where a softbody's ribs would be. Droog doesn't have ribs. He has a thorax, and Jane can feel the bump as the transition from waist to thorax moves under her foot. She shivers, a little, perfectly aware of Droog's alien, unknown iteration, and she is more than happy to _get to know it_ , hubba hubba.

He flicks up her skirt in a way that looks almost practiced, and it isn't until it clicks in her head exactly what he's going to be doing that it occurs to her she should stop it. Jane makes a little noise of protest, and his brow arches just enough over the hem of her skirt to be seen. If there's a more snarky way to ask “ _what_ ” without words, Jane sure hasn't seen it, and she's sure Snowman would've shown her if such a technique truly existed.

"I will not have those teeth anywhere near my sensitive bits, mister," she warns, her leg tensing so the tendon under her knee presses into his hard, insectoid shoulder. Is it like an insect, or just a ball-joint doll? Ooh, both good, stop thinking. "Not with what I know you'd do with them."

Droog just huffs, sending a hot breath over her just-slightly-damp panties, and Jane only barely stops herself from squirming. It's a close thing, though.

"You're mistaken," he tells her. "I promise on all the honor in my black pusher that I'm not about to bite."

Jane watches him a moment, but he just raises his other brow to match its brother in an impressive show of muscular control (somewhere under all that exoskeleton). Jane doesn't usually protest about being eaten out, when she thinks about it, anyway, but... those teeth really are something.

But also.... she's pretty sure his tongue is as sharp as his wit, and maybe just as dexterous.

He, shockingly, doesn't move forward until Jane nods, but she makes it quick anyway, so he won't be tempted to get up and go. She's pretty sure that's a possibility, judging from the rest of him.

He ducks back under her skirt, and she feels the barest hint of a tongue against her panties, dampening the fabric even further. She takes a nice, slow breath, careful to keep it even, and he does it with just enough firmness to let Jane know she didn't imagine it. The thought of it was there before, you know! She's been thinking about it. Some. Maybe a lot, but that's no one's business but her own.

She feels him mouth at her underthings, a little bit irritated by how long he's taking. What does he have, some kind of clothing kink?

She remembers who she's with.

Oh, yes, he definitely does, actually.

"These are not exactly high quality," he remarks for a moment, talking just close enough to send the little buzz of his words right into her clit, where his lip barely brushes. (Is it really a lip? Jane doesn't have the wherewithal to think about it right now. That'll go in the At Future Notice pile.) "I expected better."

"I expected to not be stolen away right after I'd gotten dressed in a hurry, so no, these aren't my _nice_ clothes," Jane snaps back, and he keeps her from saying various other extremely true, extremely right things by licking her clit through the fabric. She sighs, pleased, and knocks her heel under his shoulderblades. "Do that again," she demands.

"No," he says, and he does it again.

Jane hums, pleased, and starts to try and reach down for him, but the clank of the cuffs against the metal frame reminds her how this all got started. Right, he's cuffed her. Probably a good idea, or else his face would be right buried in her muff right about now, with how tired of his teasing she's getting to be. Who teases this much on the first time? And starts getting all critical of her choice of clothing, too? So rude. He's absolutely unbearable, except for how he breathes over her wet underthings enough to make her shiver and clench on nothing, that's quite good. Everything else she could really go without right now.

"These really are bad," he says again.

"Will you _fucking_ eat me out already," Jane says, looking down to where she can see him hunches under one of her legs. His hands come to both her thighs, and she really does like that. Even if his talons are a bit on the sharp side. A lady can handle a touch of sting every now and again.

"My pleasure," he says, in a way that means he both means it and he doesn't.

Jane lets her head plonk back down against the shoddy little pillow she's got, ears braced by her arms, and sets to making a noise of appreciation as Droog finally sets his mouth to work - what on Earth is he doing with his tongue, there -

He bites her fucking panties in half.

What a God damn bastard.

"I am going to kick you," she swears, "to _death_."

"I'm just doing as I was told, Heiress," he says, and then presses his mouth to her slit, and she forgives him.

Jane pulls at the cuffs so hard the chain linking them audibly strains. She, herself, is straining not to crush Droog into her with her thighs, force him down and make him act on the little flicks and curves his devious tongue is doing, but that sounds like a great way to cut her labia on sharp teeth and she's only into painplay if she's the one administering it.

"Ohh," she gasps, the little moan escaping her mouth despite her best efforts. She can't see Droog, but she sure can imagine the smug look on his face. 

His tongue delves deeper, tasting her, spreading her open, while his flat lip rubs against her clit. He mouths at her and she shivers.

She arches to push herself closer to him, and he buries her face in her muff with all the languid contentedness of a cat who is in the process of getting the cream. And for the record, yes, she is about to cream herself, thank you very much.

Droog's claws catch her skin, and she doesn't yelp so much as sigh, because he's doing something so _heavenly_ down there she can’t find it in her to mind that she got a little nicked. He either growls or hums against her. Which it is matters absolutely 0%, because it makes his lip buzz against her clit and she damn near seizes up, pushing her heel into his back. He grunts. She doesn't really care.

She's close, she's so close, spread out on the bed for him to take as he pleases and he's just chosen to eat her out. What a gentleman. She hasn't felt so much as a hint of teeth, either. Now this is how a lady should be treated!

"Droog," she groans, and that seems to spur him on more - his tongue traces something inside of her as he mouths over her muff, his tough upper lip against her clit. He growls and she's gone.

"Dro _og_ , oh my - ohhhh, oh," she gasps out, seizing up and going limp about as fast as it started. It doesn't hit her like a train - it's more like sliding into deep water, and Droog is the shark.

He raises his head to look at her, clearly, but she doesn't really feel like lifting her head yet, so she just lets him stare at her raised chin and heaving chest until the fuzzy, popping little aftershocks in her belly subside.

"So, any more problems with my twisted desires," Droog asks, as monotone as any. Jane sees him licking his lips when he finally takes a peek, which earns another shiver. That's very nice to think about, yes sir. 

"Oh, come off it," she grumbles, but a lady knows when she's beat. "Now come here already."

The way Droog looks at her after that is... troubling, perhaps. Worrisome. A sign of unfortunate things to come. Whatever it is, he leans over her just the way she would like, and cups her cheek on one hand. It's deceptively gentle, but Jane knows that he could strip flesh from bone with a twitch of his taloned fingers. It just makes it all the more special that he'd rather take a little bit of care with her fragile skin.

She'd kill him if he scratched her face, though.

The kiss he leaves her with is gentle, to start. Jane parts her lips for his tongue, and when he gives it, she bites down with enough force to make an impression to even though she doesn't have the same sharpness as a carapacian. He makes a noise - perhaps protest, and perhaps pleasure. Both is also an option.

She just hums pleasantly, trying to sneak a leg around his waist again, and then Droog slips back. Their last point of contact is the kiss, and it breaks quick, simple, leaving Jane still wanting.

Glares are hard to measure up to when you're coming down off a nice orgasm, but Jane delivers a wicked one anyway.

"I think," he hums, patting her cheek, "I'm going to leave you here, actually."

Jane's going to kill him.

She sits up a little, teeth gritted. The cuffs clank against the metal again, biting just a bit into her wrists. Jane narrows her eyes.

"You will _not_."

"Oh, but won't I," Droog sighs, sweeping the door open with his usual grace. She can just barely see that he's aroused, and Jane is pissed that he's just leaving.

"I'm not done with you."

"Yes," he says, closing the door behind him, "you are."

Jane sits and stews for an embarrassingly long time before she gets to actually doing anything about it. As much as she hates to admit it, Diamonds Droog has so much style it's leaking out of his audial cavities. And that was... pretty cool. Not cool of him to do, obviously, but.

Cool.

Jane tests the cuffs. They aren't going anywhere easy. She could break the chain with a lot of tugging, but she doesn't want to mess up her wrists, especially because these are pretty gross, probably. Droog may be clean, but she isn't sure these are his. She squints up to check, twisting her arm, and notes a tiny little spade on the bit that holds the chain on either cuff.

So that's his game. Yeah, if these are Slick's, there's no way Jane wants to trust them. She starts trying to twist out instead.

A thud on the wall. Various growls, hisses, noises carapacians make to communicate without words. Jane can hear them all, and there's a strangled noise or two that sounds very nice. She figures it's probably not something she needs to be concerned about, but she keeps an eye on it anyways. Or, an ear, rather. Hoo hoo, she can't see through walls - especially because Droog up and put these awful black curtains over her "window".

The noises stop, so she sets back to shifting her wrists, slowly, carefully. She's still cuffed to the darn cot, so she may very well be stuck for awhile unless she gets these off. Who knows when anyone will come by with a key?

The door opens.

"Go get 'em, tiger," drawls a very nonchalant voice, and the taloned hand of Diamonds Droog shoves Slick ass over teakettle into the cell. Jane stares at him, eyes round as the moon itself, and takes in his general state of... undress.

He's missing whatever jacket he usually wears, his pants are all rumpled, and his undershirt is torn and half untucked. He has a look on his face that Jane can't describe - or rather, wouldn't be able to describe if Droog hadn't walked away and left her wanting about fifteen minutes ago. (So that's what those noises were.)

She cottons on to Droog's game about the same time Spades Slick cottons on to the fact that she's stuck to the cot with his cuffs.


	14. Chapter 14

Jane peeks into the kitchen, with the vague hope of still being able to grab something before she's squirrelled away in the side of the mansion that holds - _Her_ \- and forced to listen to all the fighting and maybe the deaths of the people she likes best in the world, who she's lived with her whole life. As always.

Unfortunately, she gets a flash of black in the corner of her eye, tall, dark, and dangerous, and she pulls her head back before she gets a head full of lead.

"Very bad," she communicates, quietly, to Sawbuck.

"What," he says, at full volume.

They're found literally instantly.

Diamonds Droog doesn't walk into the doorway so much as appear there backed by an ominous soundtrack. His eyes are flat. His face is expressionless. His hand holds a cup of coffee.

"There you are," he remarks, and Jane realizes with a start that he's talking to her. A shudder fights its way out of the prison of her self-control and slides down her spine like a fireman. "I was wondering when you'd show that pouty face of yours. Lucky I don't have to drag you out."

"I am not pouty," Jane protests, absurdly.

Clover pads forward to immediately start throwing rhymes and riddles. Without so much as taking his eyes off of Jane, Droog takes the newspaper from under his arm and bops Clover soundly on the snout with it. Clover pouts. Throughout this whole, practiced exchange, Jane doesn't dare to move. She knows the minute she twitches, Droog's going to do something drastic. He's Diamonds Droog. He's going to hurt or kill someone before he leaves here, and he'd do it anyway if he didn't hate them, he's a violent, crazed monster of a man.

He has no right to look so damn cool while he does it, though. 

Hurt, or at least, pretending to be hurt, Clover dances over to try and steal Droog's newspaper, pouting a tad. This, Jane might be able to take advantage of. Clover's given her the goss - he's one of the only Felt members Droog has never been able to hurt, and, what with him being a nasty sadist, that probably means Droog's going to try even if it's fruitless. At least a little of his focus will be on Clover.

"Stop that," he says, holding his newspaper up so that Clover can't even jump to reach. It's about shoulder height for him, because Clover's tinier than Jane. This has the terribly “unfortunate” side effect of making the little rolled-up _something_ in the middle of the newspaper slide out of the middle. 

Everyone watches it flutter to the ground. Jane raises an eyebrow at the rather, ah, shapely images.

"I'm going to pretend that I've never seen this before," says Jane.

"Please," says Droog, with a note of exhaustion. "I'd appreciate it."

This is as good a distraction as she's been waiting for. Clover scoops up the smut and starts giggling as he darts back with it, an emotion Jane only wishes she could replicate right now. Droog just so happens to turn, just slightly, to watch him, moving to set the coffee on the countertop. A perfect chance.

"Escape plan!" Jane chirps, and right as Droog turns back to lock slanted, violent eyes with her, she punches Sawbuck in the face.

"Ow," he says, cupping his jaw as the world warps around them and snaps back into place with both of then ankle-deep in sand. "Jane, what the fuck."

"Did you _want_ to be at the mercy of Diamonds Droog, because if I punch you enough times, we'll probably go back," she points out, looking over their new surroundings.

A lot of sand, she notes. Just a whole mess of it. So not really all that different to normal, but with a good deal less time having passed, if she had to guess. The past is a perfectly alright place to be, she guesses. If they move over a little when they go back to a time that's _almost_ theirs (because the odds of actually getting there exactly are low) they won't be near the kitchen anymore. 

"You could have hit me in the arm," Sawbuck whines. "Why is it always my face? Fuck me."

Jane just takes his hand and starts pulling him in a vaguely southerly direction. She doesn't have time to waste (well, she does, that's the nature of time travel, she just doesn't want to waste it) getting back to the actual mansion. To his credit, Sawbuck trundles along after her, but he's still whining about being punched.

If he didn't want to be punched, he should have a power that doesn't necessitate punching to activate, that's all Jane's saying.

"Just a little thwap this time," she tells Sawbuck, who looks even more irritated at the thought of more hitting. "We can say this is payback for when you blundered in and ruined my baking last week."

"Hey," Sawbuck protests, "I didn't know you were still doing it -"

"I went away for _two minutes_ and you ate _all of my cookie dough_. Do not try that with me."

Jane winds up and whacks him on the shoulder, and the wet smack reverberates as time twists around them. It untwists with a snap Jane only hears with her soul.

However, this has deposited them in Crowbar's room. This is never good, as Crowbar tries not to let anyone in his room, and no one really argues against that.

Another problem is that currently, Snowman is leaned over him like a bird of prey about to dive for the kill, and she turns her head like the swivel is a doll's head on a screw. Jane and Sawbuck both freeze, and Crowbar goes taut. The group all stares at each other for a moment or two, as the situation sinks in for all of them.

"Actually," says Jane, after that uncomfortable six beats, "I think I liked the first place better."

"Mhm," says Sawbuck.

Jane punches him in the arm.

They don't end up anywhere notable for the next few smacks, kicks, and pinches, but Jane holds out hope for ending up in the exact right place. It'd have been so much easier if Clover had ended up coming with them. One, two jumps maximum. What a shame he decided to stick around and ogle Droog's naughty rags instead of being helpful.

(He was a delightful distraction, Jane is just frustrated at getting even more sand up her skirt!!!! It sucks!)

They pop into a blowout fight between Itchy and Die (and pop back out before they notice), stumble upon a trap she and Clover apparently set a year or two ago (she doesn't really remember it but it looks like fun!), and finally, end up on the other side of the kitchen, just about the time they want to be. 

"This is it?" Jane asks. 

"It is, stop nagging," Sawbuck grumbles. He checks his watch. "I gotta head. Seven wants to jam his bar up my ass for something to the other. You can get the rest of the way there, right?"

"I'll manage."

Sawbuck turns and heads off at a speedy trot, and, relieved, Jane wipes her brow. She's a hallway and a half away from the "relatively safe" half of the mansion - the one that Scratch and _Her_ live in. 

Not the worst place to be. If _She_ could communicate, Jane would probably like it a lot more. Also, Scratch is... there.

Eugh.

Jane watches Sawbuck disappear around the corner and wonders briefly where Clover went off to. She knows he's fine. She doesn't know about Stitch, though. That bothers her.

Droog loves to kidnap Stitch and make him fix his suits. Every time Jane sees him - she's seen him a few times by now - she just gets a little more worried about him.

Scratching her chin, Jane just hopes he's alright.

None of the other Felt have really showed up. Jane twirls a lock of hair around her finger as she heads down the hall, passing one door, two, four. Should she be worried?

Well, she is anyway.

There's a sound behind her, and Jane stops, midstep. The hair on the back of her neck stands up.

Jane realizes she's made a mistake.

Something long, dense, and hard collides with the side of her head, and Jane crumples like paper. Her knees hit the ground, and she struggles for consciousness, but she fails, clawing at light she can't see.

"Hmph," Jane hears, right before she loses consciousness. "I don't know why everyone else has such an issue with time travel.”


	15. Chapter 15

The hilarity of the situation does not escape Jane. The fact that she has to hold a swearing mob boss in the air with her leg is, at its core, a thing of beauty. What could be funnier than keeping a screaming man in the air with only one leg? Especially while she's cuffed? The thing is that he keeps stabbing her leg, and she really doesn't like that.

"This is very rude of you," she scolds, breaking off into a yell of pain as he gets right at the inside of her knee. "You leave my tendons alone! You stop that or I'll be kicking you right into the roof, and then no one's going to be happy -"

"Fuck you," Slick snarls, and spittle nearly flies from his mouth. If Jane didn't know better, she'd mistake it for venom.

"I don't know if that's on the menu for you anymore, actually," Jane says, kicking at his side with her other leg, "because you're such a _jerk!_ "

This has the unfortunate effect of flashing Slick, because _someone_ ruined her perfectly acceptable panties, but sometimes things like that happen. You learn to live with it.

Slick hisses, and Jane bounces him without warning so he spins in the air and falls onto the other side of the cot with a soft _thunk_. Jane takes the time to scramble back and examine her wounds.

They're mostly surface scratches, save for the deep one right in the middle of her thigh - but Stitch, back at the mansion, appears to already be working his magic. _What a fucking blessing that man is_ , Jane thinks to herself, and then spreads her legs to avoid the sudden knife that would have doubtlessly skewered her kneecap.

"You're a dick."

"That's not your fuckin' business," he sneers.

"Ohh, it's about to be."

Slick crawls forwards, and Jane presses her foot to his one good forearm, muscles taut to stop his advancement. He bares his fangs.

She bares her teeth.

This is what Hearts warned her about - Slick wanting to take her apart, fight her into doing something. Kill her on sight.

"Why don't you try and tear my face off with your teeth instead of your little butter knife there," she gloats as he tries to get the damn thing close enough to plant it in her belly. She has _got_ to teach him what is and isn't acceptable. Honestly, this is just pathetic. And dangerous!

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah."

They narrow their eyes in unison, until, without fanfare, Slick throws his knife over his shoulder and lunges for her.

Jane keeps a knee between them to keep him from getting close enough to shiv her without her noticing. She lets his mouth basically slam into her face, though. It cuts the inside of her lip on one of her teeth, does this man have no manners?

(She kind of hopes Stitch doesn't fix that one.)

His teeth dig into her lip, and she growls, a pithy little human sound, but good enough to express her feelings on the subject all the same.

Slick digs his talons into her sides, and she half-laughs, half sneers into the kiss. It makes it not a very good kiss, but Slick isn't exactly what she'd call an aficionado anyway. Droog's got him beat on that front. 

It's the anger, she's pretty sure. He kisses like he's trying to gnaw off her face. Which, she supposes, he is.

Jane waits until he's got his hands all over her, which takes about three seconds, before she moves her knee. She tries to tease his tongue into her mouth, but nearly gets her own bitten off instead. He pulls from the kiss as he adjusts himself, his small frame perfectly settled so she can feel the swell of whatever he's got down there against her. She shivers, a little, looking up at him.

"I'm gonna rip you to pieces, Crocker," he spits. He means it.

Jane smiles, more sharp than sweet, and stretches, finally getting her legs around him. "Try me."

Getting his pants off of him is marginally easier than Droog. From the state he was in and how frustrated he was when he got booted in here, Jane's reasonably sure they danced with the same devil.

The word “marginally” is in use here because Slick keeps fumbling with his belt. Now, she's not helping, actively pushing him around with her legs because she thinks it's funny, but about 90% of this silliness is on the gangster between her legs. If he'd get between them _properly_ , she'd stop messing with him quite so much. It's his fault for taking so long.

Slick grumbles a bunch of garbage, so Jane knocks him in the back with her heel. He looks at her, aghast.

"Don't swear," she scolds.

He yanks his pants down, belt and all. "I'm gonna fuck that smug little smirk right off your face, y'hear me?"

Jane shifts coyly, the jingle from her cuffs absent with how careful she is. "Heard."

She peeks to get a look at what Slick's got down there, but she has to sit up a little too. Can't quite see over her belly and skirt, but she's really like to see. Oh, wait, she's almost got those cuffs in perfect position....

"Ooh," says Jane, getting her eyes on a very strange dick - tapering, segmented, undeniably insectoid. She isn't sure what bug dicks look like, if they have them, but she's pretty sure it's not quite that. This is a rather sexy something. "Hello there."

"Sit the fuck back down," says Slick, and he shoves her. She lays down, because she's nice, and spreads her legs a little.

"What are you even waiting for," Jane laments. "Honestly, here I am, definitely not fighting you, in fact very eager for this ill-advised roll in the hay to happen, and you're making me just stare at the very unappealing ceilinAH!"

Slick, who spent the time Jane was talking licking his hand and slicking his cock, doesn't waste any time doing silly things like _letting her adjust_ or _making sure she's comfortable_ ; Jane's fairly certain he figures that as her problem. Instead, he leans over her and starts up short, rough thrusts, growling down at her.

"Ain't that a kick in the head," says Slick, voice still nice and level, even if it's rough as anything. (Jane likes that.) "Got the Heiress with her skirt pushed up around her waist on _my_ terms."

"Ohhh," gasps Jane, "speaking of."

She hooks her legs around him and pulls him close, which makes him a little off-balance. He teeters forward and plants his hands on either side of her head. (Jane knew he wouldn't be in that sling long, even if he is favoring his one arm.)

This position is delightful, and she shudders, making a little unintentional noise of pleasure. Feeling Slick fuck into her like that, bent over her like he is, she can barely stand it.

"Ahhh, Slick!"

Just as she'd thought, Slick really liked the sound of his own name, and he doubled in on it in earnest. His claws dig into the cot's rumpled sheets as he thrusts into her, his breathing finally losing that unnatural evenness.

Just what she'd been waiting for.

Jane tightens her legs around him, pinning him inside her, and flips the two of them in perfect synochrity. With a twist of her hands, she grabs his wrists and closes cuffs over them with a final _click_.

Slick boggles at her as she sits back on his cock and shivers.

"You were getting soooo full of yourself, hoo hoo hoo." She grins down at him as she splays her hands over his chest. " _On my terms_ and all that. A lady can only take so much!"

"How did you get out of those cuffs," he breathes, still with that astounded expression.

"I'm a detective, dear," she grins, the expression breaking as she rocks down on him. "Mmh! I've known how to get out of handcuffs since I was six years old. Honestly, it was pathetic how you didn't notice."

Jane doesn't think she's seen a hornier man in her life.

Jane wiggles her toes under his butt, and squirms to get her legs out from under Slick's small frame. If he wasn't so bloodthirsty, he might be _cute_. 

Jane's favorite type, she's thinking. She's got this man wrapped around her little finger - he groans and yanks at the cuffs with both arms as she shifts around, his dick still seated deep inside her. It's a comfortable size. Lucky it is, too, because if it wasn't and he tried treating her like he did when he got started, _oooohhh_ , he'd be in trouble.

"So, does Droog always get your girls ready for you?" Jane giggles.

Slick's arm swings up for her, but the cuffs catch it, and Jane gets a very perverse sense of pleasure from watching him struggle like she did just a little while ago. Maybe she and Slick have more in common than she thought.

He's realized now that he can't hit her, so he just shows his teeth and cusses her out. Jane puts a stop to that when she starts rocking back on him, tongue poking between her teeth in a smug little smile. Somehow, Slick finds it in him to stop being a nuisance - maybe it's because she's a gift who's riding his dick? Probably.

Jane isn't exactly a quiet girl, so she can't help but let little noises slip out of her as she rides him. Especially because Slick isn't either - she thinks the sexiest part of this might actually be his gravelly little moans, the way he shifts under her, still not quite able to accept he's been beaten. It's _hot_. She tenses around him and he shudders, all down his body, curling his talons into the palms of his own hands.

Jane leans forward, a little, her breath a little more labored, and is surprised when Slick bucks up into her. It just happens to be the exact right spot, so she lets his insolence slide and just splays her hands over his chest.

" _Slick_ ," she whispers, just shy of right into his ear, and he loses his mind. He thrusts up into her, forceful, unyielding, and Jane rocks back against each motion. She foregoes both hands on him and slips one down to rub her clit in the quick circles she really likes.

He stutters to a stop, coming inside her with thick pulses of - something - and the warm, full feeling is part of what she gets off to a few moments later. (Also on that list: having power over Spades Slick, handcuffs, and the little cut on the inside of her lip.)

They take a moment to just look at each other, afterward. Jane doesn't get off him for a good moment, and he looks up at her with a rather odd expression, like instead of being a person she's a complicated math problem he has to solve. Whatever his reasoning is, that's Spades Slick's problem, not hers to fix.

She smiles, tiredly.

"I'm going to steal your pants," she tells him, leaning to pull off of him with a sensitive little sound.

"Like hell you are," he says.

She does anyway.

It is _tough_ to actually get those fucking things off him. Especially when she's - well, she's dripping whatever dark stuff carapacians come, and it's down her leg at this point. She decides her panties are a lost cause and just uses them to tidy up.

"What, you got a problem there?" Slick sneers, like he isn't cuffed to a cot with his whole dick out. "Got my mark on you for sure."

"Oh, hush," she says, considering the soiled panties. It's not like carapacians cum buckets, so it wasn't much, but they're still rather gross. She's definitely not putting them back on. "It's not like I'm going to keep this quiet. I'm not going to tell my father or anything, but I'm definitely going to tell my friends I bedded Spades Slick."

"Uh, I bedded you," Slick says.

" _Sure_ you did."

Slick glares, and pulls at his cuffs again. Apparently, he buys nice cuffs, because they've withstood quite a lot today.

"I'm going to get out of here and I'm going to say, _oh wow, I sure was kidnapped, and you know what I did before I escaped_?"

"Do not."

“I fucked the life out of their boss.”

Jane pulls on Slick's pants. They don't fit well, definitely cutting into her gut, but they're better than nothing. It's lucky he wears stuff that's a little big for him. Jane doesn't know how Droog stands it.

"Bye, Slick," she says, trying the door. It's unlocked. Of course it is, Slick was in here, and it can't be locked from the inside. Jane can't imagine Slick likes being locked in places.

Sucks that he's cuffed to a cot.

"I'm going to gut you," he swears, voice raising. "I swear to god, Crocker, you better not leave me here -"

Actually, that may be a problem. If Slick keeps yelling, eventually someone will come get him, and Jane wants a good head start. She turns to look back at him, considering, and then looks down at the soiled panties in her hand.

Fifteen minutes later, with Jane -1 pair of panties and Slick +1 makeshift gag, Jane finally manages to get out of the darn hideout. This is definitely not their Main Hideout, but it's one of them, and it's good to know where this is now. She puts her hands on her hips and kicks the manhole cover back where it's supposed to be. Don't want anyone falling in, after all.

She starts to look around, trying to figure out which direction the mansion would be, but she hears a familiar voice and stops doing that in favor of tracking them down.

" - like I said," mutters Crowbar, voice low as it sneaks out of the station wagon's cracked-open window, "we have reason to believe she's in there, and a lot more reason to believe that Spades and Diamonds at the very least will be there too. Hearts and Deuce are currently unaccounted for, so we're at best going in against two, at worst, all four. This is their home front. We're going to get hurt."

Jane smiles, a hand to her chest. Aw, she's touched. They're going to come in after her. Took them long enough, honestly, but beggars can't be choosers. (Not that Jane begs for anything.)

Jane sneaks up to the window and listens, politely not butting in. She can't keep the self-assured smirk off her face.

"Crowbar," says a shaky voice, high-pitched from nerves, "um -"

"Not now, Die, I'm trying to go over the plan. It's fucking hard enough as is, I don't want to have to shout it over gunfire in a second."

"No, really," says Sawbuck, leaning around Crowbar, "it's kind of important -"

"Jesus shit, I'm herding cats. I'm literally herding cats. This is a nightmare. Fine, tell me what's so important."

"They're going to tell you I'm waiting to be let in," says Jane, fingers curled over top of the window. She has to be on her tiptoes to look in. "Which I really would appreciate."

Crowbar turns and stares at her with a look on his face like he's gone through all stages of grief and had to invent a new one.

Jane just smiles, the sweet one, with her eyes crinkling at the corners. Sawbuck and Die start laughing, while Quarters just shouts and leans against the station wagon's inside hard enough to make it rock. Clover giggles on his shoulder. A pretty good set of choices for a rescue party, all things considered.

"... Just fucking get in," says Crowbar, opening the door for her. "I can't do this tonight. Just get in, we're going home."

Jane hops in and smooths out Slick's uncomfortable pants, kicking Die out of the passenger seat so he has to go sit in the back. She waves to the rest of the party as she gets in. She's genuinely quite happy to see them.

"So, how'd they treat you?" Clover asks, with just enough sparkle in his eyes to tell Jane he's got an idea of the answer. "Terribly? Were they uncouth?"

She winks, turning to look out the windshield as the car starts up.

"Oh," Jane says, fixing her disheveled hair in the rearview mirror, "they were the _worst._ "


End file.
